Kate Noble (5 page)

“Thank you, er…”

“Jimmy, sir.”

“Thank you, Jimmy,” Max said, and the groom tipped his hat to him, and sprinted off after his mistress.

It was only then that Max realized two things. First, that although he had had the manners to find out the groom’s name, he and the girl had never exchanged theirs. More the better to never see each other again, he supposed. Still, she was an interesting creature—fire for eyes, and what a ridiculous hat! It was like something a farmer would wear, only worse.

No filter between her brain and her mouth, Max mused, rubbing the tension from the back of his neck. She was also either very brave, or very foolhardy, to pull that stunt on the horses. Likely both. And he certainly couldn’t fault her ankles, or the way wet clothing stuck to her…A smile played around Max’s mouth until he realized the second thing: The stable where he boarded Jupiter was nearly two miles away.

“Bloody hell,” Max groaned. It was going to be a long, cold walk.

WHEN
Gail traveled home that morning, she did not care one jot if any of their neighbors were awake and twitching back the curtains. The only thing she cared about was a good warm bath. That was, of course, until she heard the piece of news that greeted her the moment she opened the door.

Her debut ball was to be in three weeks. Invitations were already being printed.

A
week had passed since that infamous morning, and the occupants of Number Seven Berkeley Square were in a flurry of activity, what with calls to be paid and dresses to be ordered and fitted. Menus had to be arranged, flowers purchased, musical groups auditioned and chosen (Romilla liked the classic quartet and would not hear of Gail’s impish desire for a grand trumpet processional), silver to be polished, and the refurbishing of now seven rooms. Of course during all this, Sir Geoffrey had to keep up his political acquaintance and pay calls on the Home Office. Therefore, Gail and Evangeline often found themselves left to the devices of Romilla, who did not deem it advisable for young ladies not yet presented to the Ton to go out to the British Museum, or to the opera, or Astley’s Amphitheatre, or any other amusement that might keep their minds from dwelling too long on the approaching festivities. Evangeline bore it admirably, as she was in fact looking forward to the event and tried to throw herself as much into the process of giving a party as Romilla would hand over. Only occasionally did her fears of failure overcome her, but Gail was always there to talk her out of her low spirits.

As for Gail, she was not faring quite as well. Her nerves at the prospect of a ball were becoming increasingly worse, manifesting in a bout of awkwardness that had not been seen since the heyday of her adolescent growth spurts. Already, she had accidentally knocked over two very expensive vases and tripped on the corner of a rug, oversetting a tea tray. But whenever such mishaps brought forth scowls from Romilla and sighs from the servants, Evangeline was there to make Gail laugh at herself again.

One thing Gail did have to aid in escape was QueenBee. Romilla was staunchly against her riding during the Ton’s most fashionable hours, but Sir Geoffrey had intervened for his daughter’s sake, and struck a compromise. She was permitted to ride in the very early mornings, before the Ton was out strutting on horseback. Gail reveled in this solitary time, taking all of her frustration and channeling it into a glorious gallop across open fields. She came home refreshed, calmer, and more prepared to face whatever the day or Romilla thrust upon her. Of course now, while riding, she kept her eye out for tall, impossibly arrogant men riding mad horses as if the devil himself were on their tail. Not that she expected to see him. It was only that if she did see him, she would know to politely avoid the area he was in. She was very happy to not see him ever again. Not that she thought about him. Ever.

As for Maximillian Fontaine, he refused to think of that impossibly irritating girl who threw him into a lake. Unless of course, he happened by a lake. Or someone impossibly irritating. After recounting the tale of his watery misadventures to Will Holt, painting himself as the wronged party of course, Max was laughed at by his best friend and told most seriously to remove the rigid wooden object that occupied his posterior.

Max continued to ride as well, once Jupiter had recovered from the effects of his broken bridle. He thought it would be tempting fate to ride in the park in early morning, so he settled for the sunset hours. When most people were sitting down to dine, Max was taking Jupiter through his paces in some secluded corner. Happily, the solitary rides were beneficial to Jupiter’s temper as well as his own. In fact, since having been in the presence of his beloved QueenBee, Jupiter’s moods were much improved, maybe because he thought he might happen upon her at any moment, even though Max was determined to avoid that at all costs. Even so, the horse and rider would fly through the park’s deserted paths and fields (avoiding the area of a particular lake) until they were both breathing heavily and happier for the exercise.

One evening, after a good bout of sprinting, Max and Jupiter wandered at their leisure and found themselves on a before unknown bit of path. After twisting and turning through wooded areas, they came upon a beautiful, shaded grotto, with a newly installed gazebo in its center, in the popular ruined style. On that late spring day, the budding vines winding up the gazebo’s stone columns were a light green, but the sunset made them glow as if on fire. Max found himself in awe of the dazzling slices of red mixed with gold and hazels cutting through the trees. The colors captivated him, the air itself seemed to stop. He could only hear the sounds of birds rustling and Jupiter shifting his weight, not the overbearing noise of London’s streets. In that moment, Max felt as if he were the sole person on this earth.

All too soon, the light left the trees. He hated to leave the peaceful grotto, but once the sun had dipped below the horizon, the park quickly became very dark, and very cold. Wishing he had some breadcrumbs to place so he could find his way back to the serene spot, Max turned Jupiter about, and headed for home.

Having deposited his horse back at the corner stables, Max strolled the short distance back to his bachelor quarters. The air of peace the grotto had given him still surrounding his mind, Max hummed a bit of Beethoven as he walked up the front steps.

His lodgings were located on Weymouth Street, near Regent’s Park and the grand winding avenue of the same name. It was not the most fashionable part of town, but for Max it was a haven for that very reason. His family connections and title allowed him to mingle freely in society—although he was never the star of any party, he was someone who could fill an empty seat well enough, and therefore did not lack invitations. His club was most agreeable to his membership, as long as his dues were paid. But when he came home at the end of the day, Max’s rooms were a sanctuary. There were no mews, but the rent was agreeable. His apartments occupied the ground floor of a thin, three-story house—the second and third floors were let to a young musician with a taste for the pianoforte and an old scholar working on his thousand-page treatise, respectively. He had a parlor with his bedroom beyond, and a small room for Harris, his valet. But what drew Max home night after night was the cozy study full of wonderfully musty books, and best of all—no stamp of his father’s rigidity anywhere. It was all he required. It was all his own.

He strolled through the door.

“Good evening, Harris.”

“Good evening, sir.”

“I’m afraid I’m running late tonight,” Max said as he handed his hat and gloves to his valet, “I’m dining with Mr. Holt at the club, so please send for a hack directly.”

Harris cleared his throat and moved to intercept his employer. Harris had been with Max as long as Max had been in London, even through those years where pay was equivalent to that day’s meals. He was getting older, but for a man of certain years, Harris moved uncommonly quickly when necessary. He cut a surprised Max off at the mouth of the drawing room.

“Sir,” he said, “a guest arrived while you were riding. I installed him in the study.”

Max finally noticed the gravity on Harris’s face. The man was usually quite serious, bordering on dour, but today he looked downright bereaved.

A weight settled onto Max’s shoulders, all the joy from his beautiful ride draining away. Only one person could unsettle Harris. He knew who was behind those doors across the narrow foyer, but not what kind of aggravations awaited him.

“Well then,” he said, trying to sound jovial for his valet’s benefit. “Best to get it over with, eh?”

Harris nodded, and Max managed a weak smile. Pushing open the study doors, Max encountered the one man he had long sought to avoid.

“Close the door, you dratted fool! A sick old man cannot be subject to a breeze.”

His father.

MAX
closed the study doors behind him. His father was seated behind the large walnut table that served as a desk, which was normally covered six inches deep in various books, papers, and correspondence. Harris had obviously made quick work of cleaning it off before admitting the Earl, for it now shone with a polished brilliance. Max suddenly felt very much like a guest in his own home, and wondered where the study that he claimed as a refuge had gone.

“’Bout time you came back. I haven’t the faintest idea what you think you’re doing riding at such an hour. You haven’t even changed your boots! Look at all the mud you are traipsing in, quite unseemly,” said the Earl, not even bothering to rise.

Rising would have undone the image, thought Max, as he regarded his father. Oh yes, if he had risen to meet his son, it would have shown some consideration for Max as a beloved relative or at least as the master of this residence. Also, it would not do for a man who is supposed to be near his deathbed to stand upon someone’s entry. That act of social nicety is reserved for the healthy.

Not that Max believed for a minute that his father was near death’s door—that ruse no longer worked on him. But now, seeing him for the first time in years, Max did have to admit that his father was looking older. The hair that was once a thick, distinguished gray was now limp, white, and thinning. His color was pale, and the normally strong frame seemed to hunch under its age. Max took note of a gold-headed cane in the corner, one he could tell was not purely ornamental.

But the eyes—the green eyes that mirrored his own, were as sharp and as cold as ever.

“Forgive me, Father,” Max said stiffly. “I was surprised—I should not have wanted to keep you waiting.”

“’Course you didn’t,” his father retorted. “I heard you through the door. You came in to ‘get it over with’ as quickly as possible.”

Max’s face reddened dully.

“I wouldn’t have heard you if you were living somewhere with thicker walls,” his father said.

“Somewhere like Longsbowe House, I suppose?” Sarcasm dripped from every word.

“Longsbowe House in London is there for the purpose of it being used. Why you insist on wasting your money on this unfamiliar place is beyond me!”

“It’s my money, Father, I’ll spend it as I choose. Tell me, what brings you to London when you have claimed to be too ill to remove yourself from Sussex? When you haven’t been to town in over fifteen years?”

His father stared him down, placing his palms upon the desk. “Serious business brings me to this godforsaken town,” the Earl said. “Since you don’t respond to my letters, I felt it necessary to come and say what I have to in person.”

Max suddenly felt very tired. “I’m no longer in short pants, Father. I have done nothing that requires a scolding.”

The Earl brushed that aside. “It is precisely what you have not done that causes me to travel all over the country to speak with you.”

The Earl lifted himself out of the chair, but leaned on the desk for support. He motioned to Max to have a seat. Max obediently took one of the chairs across from the desk, ready, if not precisely willing, to hear the Earl out.

But his father’s first words surprised him.

“You don’t like me. I know that. I confess I do not understand most of what you do either. You refuse to live as a Longsbowe, instead spending your time and life in this”—he waved his hand around—“place. You went to Oxford and the Continent, have been raised as a gentleman, and even though you insist on working for a wage, I daresay you enjoy your gentlemanly pursuits. But you have yet to take any responsibility for your station. You have not come back to Longsbowe Park and taken up the running of the estates. You have not pursued any woman of Quality who would make a suitable Countess for our distinguished name. Well, I have known for quite some time you were useless, but I refuse to have a wastrel for a son.”

Max looked heavenward. “I’m well aware of your opinion of me, Father—this did not warrant a personal visit.”

“I’m dying, boy,” the Earl proclaimed irritably. “I am not long for this world. I know that, too. But before I go, you will step up and accept everything that comes with your title. You may not live off the money I allow you, but you live off the name I gave you. It is time you grew up and earned it. If you don’t marry before three months are out, I will strip you of it.”

For many moments, Max could not speak.

He was shocked at his father’s pronouncement. He’d heard most of it before, being called a good-for-nothing and being railed at to get married and live at Longsbowe Park. But, dying? Max’s father had said he’d been dying for the past decade. But as Max looked over the Earl’s frail body, it was the first time he’d believed it. He pushed those thoughts out of his head. He had to.

Never had the Earl issued an ultimatum before—and what an ultimatum it was! Max finally exhaled when he realized his father wasn’t capable of what he threatened.

“You can’t strip me of the title, Father. Or the money that comes with it when you die.”

“Oh no, that’s where you’re wrong!” chortled the Earl, creaking his body back into the chair. “If you had studied the legalities of Longsbowe you would have realized it. Nearly half of the estates and all of the money I have came from your mother when we married. That part is not entailed to you. I could very easily will the blunt away to your Uncle Alfred. What you would be left with is half a dozen estates, including Longsbowe Park and House, with absolutely no money to keep them running. You would go under within a month.”

“So…so what?” Max bluffed. “I’ll just sell off whatever isn’t entailed.”

“And then do what?” His father chortled evilly. “A desperate seller never gets the price he wants. You’d likely not earn enough capital to support Longsbowe Park—and that’s one you can’t sell. Besides”—his father’s green eyes softened marginally—“you have always seen Longsbowe on your horizon. Admit it.”

Max faltered. Then, “What about the title? You cannot take that from me.”

“No, but I can seriously decrease its value. All it takes is one little whisper in the right ear, and suddenly everyone doubts your paternity. It would be quite a headache. Relatives you didn’t even know you had would be clamoring to take your place. Try selling an estate when people doubt it’s yours.

“Add that to your sudden lack of funds, and you would never be invited to another card party again. Do you think they’d even let you through the door of White’s? You would be kicked out of all good society without your coat!”

Max stared at his father, whose grin had taken on a cold, Machiavellian feel.

“You would paint yourself a cuckold, besmirch my mother’s name? You would destroy everything the Longsbowe name has meant for centuries?” Max said, disbelieving.

“I’ll be dead. It won’t matter to me any longer. And if the name means nothing to you as you claim, then what I threaten holds no weight. But if you do aspire to be Longsbowe…” The old man shrugged a withered shoulder.

It was a new low. It was a desperate manipulation.

It was classic Father.

“I knew you despised me seeking any small form of independence, but I didn’t know you hated me this much.”

“You sit around here, dawdling with your books, waiting for me to die. You will for once heed my wishes before I go.”

A great sigh left the Earl. Now that he had said his piece, he suddenly looked much older, as if he had been saving his strength for this, and now that it was done he could rest.

Max let out a cry—half laugh, half disbelief, and placed his head in his hands.

“You will be married, within three months’ time, else I will do as I said,” the Earl stated.

Max knew the Earl was serious. That he had never doubted.