THE next morning, Max woke surprisingly sated. He had slept deeply as always, but more so because for the first time since he left Longsbowe Park, he had stood up to his father. Any wince of regret he felt at that last parting comment was quickly swallowed by the thought of his upcoming day.
Max was going to the Altons’ to pay court to Evangeline. Somewhere in the mass of confusion that was yesterday, he remembered something about agreeing to a carriage ride in the park at high riding hours. This presented a problem, as he had a feeling he was expected to provide a carriage. Having his horse boarded and occasionally hiring hacks had its advantages, but impressing young ladies with his frugality was not generally among them. He would be damned, Max thought, if he would call round to Longsbowe House and take one of their carriages, especially after last night—so he turned to the next viable option. He sent a quick note off to Will, begging for the favor of his smartest conveyance, and salvation was delivered to Max’s doorstep at precisely one o’clock: a shining gray open barouche, Will’s best whip neatly in control of a lovely pair of matched bays. Max took a moment to question whether or not a barouche of this size was too much, but ultimately decided that as his note was nonspecific in the type of carriage, Will assumed best meant best. Besides, they could stretch out their legs.
So it was that at precisely two-thirty, Max pulled up in front of Number Seven Berkeley Square in his best afternoon coat and hat, a basket of nibbles Harris had packed personally sitting on the seat beside him.
Max alighted and was promptly admitted. He waited in the drawing room the proper number of minutes, and then ten more, before anyone came to greet him. And even then, it was not the lady he had come to see.
It was Lady Alton.
“Lord Fontaine,” Romilla said, giving a cool nod as a greeting.
Max gave a deep bow and replied in kind.
“I should like to lay some ground rules before my daughters come downstairs.”
The plural of “daughters” caught Max’s interest, but he ignored it, wisely remaining silent.
“When you are in public with Evangeline, you are to be polite and attentive, but never overbearing. Never are you to attempt to even grasp her hand, beyond assisting her into and alighting from the carriage. Luckily, I will be on hand to keep things proper, and—”
“Excuse me, madam?” Max couldn’t help but interrupt. “You are attending the carriage ride today?”
“Yes, of course. Abigail will be riding with us as well. Not just today, either. A family member will be present at all times you and Evangeline are in public together—a maid will not suffice. What good is your appearing in each other’s company if it is not known to be sanctified by her family?” Romilla said, waving her hands about as she spoke, as if dismissing bothersome insects. Max’s teeth started to grind. Not for the first time, the niggling question echoed in his head: What had he gotten himself into?
“I thought, madam, that the purpose might have been the opportunity for Evangeline and I to get to know one another more intimately.”
Romilla’s face hardened. “Yes, well, I’d say you already know her intimately enough.”
Max had to admit, he had walked right into that one.
“And another thing, my Lord—I noticed your carriage in the drive. A lovely vehicle to be sure, and I’m very pleased it will seat us all—so Abigail and I will not have to follow in our carriage—but not your own, am I correct? Please from now on, would you be so kind as to bring your own carriage? To be seen under the crest of Longsbowe would go a good distance in solidifying to the public eye the respectability of your intent.”
“Madam, I do not have a carriage,” Max said with deceptive calm.
Romilla blinked. “Of course you do. Longsbowe House has quite the stableyard.”
“Lady Alton,” Max answered, “the Longsbowe stables belong to my father. I personally own one horse, and he is boarded near my lodgings, which I rent.”
Romilla placed her hands on her hips, frustrated. “Would your father begrudge you the use of his stables?”
“No, but—”
“Then next time you take us for a ride in the park, borrow a carriage from your father.”
“Respectfully, madam, I will not. My father and I—”
“Lord Fontaine!” Romilla interrupted. The frustration purpled her face, but she took a deep breath, calming herself before she spoke again.
“This is an unusual situation for us all,” she sighed, tired already. “I apologize if my instructions seem rude, but truth be told, we don’t know you, and what we know of you so far doesn’t necessarily make us inclined to trust you. Understand that everything, everything, that I am attempting to do today and in the future is to protect my daughter and family. Someday soon, I hope to be able to chat amiably with you, to respect you, even to like you. But for now, I have to ask you to bend a little and go along with what I ask.”
It was an honest appeal—something Max encountered all too rarely. He could appreciate that, he thought, even if he didn’t like what it asked him to do.
“I’m sure I’ll find a way to accommodate us both, ma’am,” Max said, meaning it, and bowing.
The hard lines of Romilla’s face broke into a smile for the first time that afternoon, just as the drawing room doors opened again, admitting the Alton sisters. Evangeline was in the lead, breathtakingly beautiful in a pink day dress and carriage coat of deeper rose, but her cheeks did not pick up the color. She was pale and kept her sparkling blue eyes downcast. If one didn’t know better, it seemed as if she were nervous, even scared.
Gail Alton stood behind her, closest to the door, her golden gaze direct, if expressionless. She was studying him, he realized. And Evangeline was avoiding him. Somehow, Max thought, those roles should be reversed.
Realizing perhaps he shouldn’t be staring, or if he did, he should limit his sightline to his intended, Max bowed, murmuring his greetings. Evangeline and Gail both curtsied, replying in kind. They rose.
And…no one said a word.
“Well,” Romilla broke the silence, perhaps a bit too brightly, “we should be off then. Evangeline, Lord Fontaine has the loveliest barouche awaiting us, and I cannot wait to be out in the fresh air today.”
Max glanced out the window. The sky was slate gray, and London air was rarely described as “fresh”—too much coal dust floated over the city. As he turned back, he caught a glimpse of Gail turning her eyes back from the window, too. He could guess that her thoughts were similar to his own, and a small wry smile escaped his lips.
They went into the foyer, and Max retrieved his articles from the butler, while the ladies pulled on their bonnets and gloves.
Suddenly, a small ripping noise broke the silence as they just stepped outside the door.
“Oh drat,” Evangeline’s sweet breathless voice filled the air. “It seems I rent my glove,” she said, a slight frown lining her brow.
“Oh dear,” Romilla sighed and went to examine the damaged garment. The seam connecting the thumb to the palm of the glove had split.
“At least it’s repairable. Run upstairs and put on another pair, quickly dear.”
“I’m afraid this is my last pair of white gloves”—Evangeline lowered her voice discreetly—“today is laundry day. The rest are in the wash.”
“Borrow some of Gail’s, then,” Romilla quickly suggested.
“I apologize, ma’am,” Gail interjected, “but I’m fresh out, too. Indeed, Mrs. Bibb made certain we had these for our outing today—but all our other things are being cleaned.”
“Besides,” Evangeline added, “Gail’s gloves are too large for me.”
Romilla sighed, and rolled her eyes to the heavens, as if bargaining with God to get her through the afternoon. “All right. Evangeline, come with me, I’ll find you something from my wardrobe. Lord Fontaine, Gail—we’ll be back shortly.” And they went back into the house, leaving Gail and Max alone on steps.
Shocked by the sudden advent of Gail’s sole company, Max slid his eyes to his companion, to gauge if her reaction was similar.
Gail, in turn, slid her eyes to Max.
Quickly, they both looked away.
It was acutely uncomfortable.
Max crossed his arms over his chest, looking around at the stone steps, the potted urns of early spring flowers that flanked the door, his shoes, anything was safer than Gail. Likewise, Gail kept her gaze straight ahead into the park square.
Well, someone would have to venture some sort of conversation, Max decided, and it might as well be him.
“What I don’t understand is why your stepmother is so adamant that I not be alone with your sister, and yet, here I stand, alone with you.”
“But we’re not alone,” she answered without any inflection.
“We’re not? I could have sworn only you and I stood here. Did you bring along an imaginary friend?” he said mockingly.
Gail slid him a wry glance, but kept her head straight. “Right now, there are a dozen eyes on us. The Pickerings in Number Eight are twitching back the curtains. Indeed, there are more people watching us now than were watching us at the ball.”
Max’s head came up involuntarily, immediately looking toward Number Eight, and saw the curtains mysteriously swing back into place as he turned his head.
“We’re being spied on?”
“I have it on good authority that in London spying is what people do,” Gail said, finally turning her head to look at him. A slight smile played at the corners of her mouth, as if she were mocking him—but for once, he didn’t mind. She seemed less frightening, less confrontational. She was just as tall, her back ramrod straight, and yet she was smaller somehow. Maybe because she wasn’t drunk or as mad as a soaking wet hen.
“Speaking of that night at the ball…” Max started. He looked to Gail who kept her face schooled in impassivity. He coughed and sputtered a little and started again. “Yes—ahem—while we’re on the subject…the ball.”
Gail froze—but as she really wasn’t moving to begin with, it was quite imperceptible.
“The ball,” she repeated.
“Far be it from me to instruct you on the ways of proper conduct…” Max said, in his most imperious tone—the one that always worked for his father.
“Yes, it would be very far from you to instruct me on proper conduct,” Gail noted dryly.
Max felt the heat rise to his cheeks and glowered to hide his blush.
“Perhaps you should take more care of who you have fetch your drinks—and being lured into dark corners and…and lecherous men with only one thing on their minds.”
Now was Gail’s turn to blush and glower.
He saw her eyes narrow, her shoulders hunch as if ready to pounce. He could see the scathing she would give him, held just behind her voice. But she held her tongue.
Max smirked. She was trying so hard to hold back, he realized, for the sake of propriety. And yet all she wanted to do was brain him with her reticule—her fingers twitched on the strings.
A little demon on his shoulder told him to prod her further.
“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”
As if those were the magic words that opened the gates to her opinion, Gail turned to him, eyes flashing, mouth quirked in a predatory twist. He was all too aware of the intensity of her golden gaze (and the little lurch of anticipation his stomach gave at encountering it) when he saw her pull back. Rein in.
Taking a deep breath, she spoke.
“Thank you.”
He blinked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, ‘Thank you.’ I was veering toward disaster that night, and you came to my rescue. You also held your tongue, when you could have told my parents or any number of your acquaintances, who would have no doubt delighted in a morsel of gossip. I appreciate your reticence. Given our previous encounter, I would have preferred anyone else in the world to witness my, er, state. However, it was you, Max. So I say thank you.”
Max leaned back against the door, all of the ready engagement he had brewing diffused. Disarmed.
Well, that was no fun.
“Oh,” he mumbled. “Don’t mention it.”
Silence took over for a moment as Max went back to crossing and uncrossing his arms and looking at his toes. He was just beginning to bear the quiet, leaning back against the door, wondering just how long it took to fetch a silly glove, when Gail opened her mouth.
“It does beg the question, however,” she said.
“What question?”
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
Max’s eyebrow went up. “I beg your pardon?”
“You keep begging my pardon, and really, I’m not inclined to give it. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“For what?”
“For being caught kissing my sister in my conservatory!” Gail hissed, trying not to be overheard. Max couldn’t see any potential eavesdroppers, but sound had the annoying habit of carrying to all too-interested ears.
“You are the most hypocritical man I ever met,” she continued. “You take me to task for being preyed upon and then go and prey upon my sister! You went from being the rescuer of one to the seducer of the other, in the span of a quarter hour!”
“My actions, regarding your sister,” Max said slowly, his voice cold as steel, “are none of your business, Brat.”
“My sister, my conservatory,” Gail countered. “My family. I’d count myself as an interested party.”
“Miss Alton,” Max said, turning to her, his shoulder leaning against the door in a relaxed pose of false calm, “I’m not answerable to you.”
“No, Max, you’re not, sadly. Are you answerable to anyone? Is there anyone in this world who keeps you and your tremendous ego in check?” Gail looked into his face, and he was surprised to see the beginnings of real tears. “How could you? How could you? You are no better than Ommersley, getting a girl alone and then forcing your intentions on her! And you can’t deny it.”
“Of course I can deny it! I didn’t prey on you, did I?” Max said, perhaps more loudly than was proper, causing Gail to stare him into silence.
“But you don’t like me, Max. I cast up the contents of my stomach on your shoes. Preying on me was probably repulsive, even to an unethical blackguard like you.”
An image of the way Gail had looked that night drifted across Max’s mind. Bleary eyed, tipsy, and eventually covered in vomit. Not at all appealing.
And yet, that had been an awfully fetching yellow dress.
“Why did you have to prey on my family?” Gail asked in a furious whisper, eyes gleaming. “Why couldn’t you leave us alone? Sometimes you really are a…”
She managed to stop herself, but not the tears. Max was caught by those watery golden brown eyes, stoically fighting as one glistening tear lazily rolled its way down her flushed cheek.
He felt all the air leave his body. She was right—somewhat. He had blithely tripped into her family for his own reasons. He had sat through an uncomfortable interview with the father, and the stepmother, but until he encountered Gail’s frustration and anger, Max hadn’t really considered how his actions had affected this family. And here he’d stood on the steps, playfully snide and superior, prodding Gail into tears.
Sometimes, he really was a—
Suddenly, the door that supported most of his weight opened.
Luckily, he managed to catch himself on a nearby urn before falling completely, but he did make a few stumbling steps that Romilla looked upon most disapprovingly.
As both ladies emerged into the bleak afternoon daylight, gloves on and intact, Romilla gave a great smile. “Well,” she said, false cheer in place, “shall we be off, then?”
IF it was thought the excursion had started off badly, the carriage ride itself could only be classified as a complete disaster.
Not outwardly of course—Romilla, a master at keeping up appearances, had made certain that they looked happy and jovial to anyone spying from afar. But if anyone had gotten close enough to read the subtleties, they would have come to realize one truth: No one here was having any fun.
Part of the reason, nay, the whole of the reason people rode in the park in the afternoons was that it was terribly fashionable. Gentlemen were there to look at the Young Ladies. Young Ladies were there to catch the eye of the Gentlemen and make themselves known to the many Matrons that ruled the Ton. The Matrons were there to ensure that no one faltered on the steps of the social ladder, and if they did, to be able to claim themselves an eyewitness to the occasion. Exercise was secondary.
The Alton/Fontaine party was no different, however much one or another of its occupants wished to be riding freely at a gallop on their own horse. Even in this unremarkable and somewhat chilly weather, the mass of fashionability turned out in fine style, crowding the neatly graveled paths and rolling lawns of Hyde Park. Gentlemen on fine horses, many of whom had more prestigious breeding than their owners, flanked carriages with ladies lounging in the seats. Lord Fontaine’s carriage joined the unofficial queue of people dancing attendance on each other.
They smiled and nodded to Lord and Lady Garrett and the Pickerings, who giggled as they passed by. Mr. and Mrs. Fortings waved coolly as they went along, and several gentlemen greeted them genially. Indeed, from afar, it all looked so very amiable.
However, the insidious rumors had reached more and more ears in the past day, and the Ton was getting more and more curious.
Some of the gentlemen who stopped at the barouche’s side were either complete rakes sensing easy prey or young bucks trying to earn dissolute reputations. Some people simply passed by with their noses in the air. Lady Hurstwood gave Lord Fontaine the most suspicious glance as she chatted with Evangeline. She had gone so far as to hint at the notion of a wedding, but out of necessity, not romance. Romilla had, of course, handled such inquisitions smoothly, until she had the opportunity to chat with Lady Jersey.
Lady Jersey was one of the leading matrons of the Ton. She and a handful of other ladies held supreme social power because they held all the vouchers for Almack’s. Without a voucher, a young lady might just as well go home for the Season and quietly cry in the corner, such were her chances for social success. Most of these matrons were narrow-mindedly pompous, prudishly strict individuals who believed unequivocally in their own rightness. Lady Jersey was no different—but, perhaps, the nicest of the lot.
“Lady Alton. I must congratulate you on your ball the other evening,” Lady Jersey began after being hailed by Romilla, her pair of horses coming to a smart halt at the lightest flick of her wrist. “It was not lacking in interesting events, I understand.”
Romilla wisely ignored the bait. “Thank you, Lady Jersey, I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”
“I daresay I wasn’t the only one,” Lady Jersey continued, her eyes flitting to Lord Fontaine, as Gail and Evangeline exchanged quick looks.
Romilla cleared her throat and dared the next sentence. “Lady Jersey, are you acquainted with Lord Fontaine?”
Lady Jersey looked at Max, quirked her eyebrow, and extended her hand. “Lord Fontaine and I have never met, although I have seen you at several functions around town.”
“Of course,” Max answered smoothly. “Your servant, ma’am.”
She nodded, regarded him a moment, and then asked, “Do you attend Almack’s, my Lord?”
“But rarely, ma’am. I haven’t had much cause to go until recently.”
“Yes, of course. Few young gentlemen attend until they meet a lady worth pursuing there,” Lady Jersey said coolly, but politely.
“Perhaps you’ll see more of me then.” Max smiled charmingly, and Lady Jersey responded in kind.
Romilla took advantage of the easier interaction Max had provided and took the next step. “Lady Jersey, I do hope that we may call upon you later in the week, I so admired the facade of your home.”
Max knew Lady Jersey lived just across Berkeley Square, and therefore was required to maintain a neighborly connection with the Altons. But she could so easily say no. No one could be blind to Romilla’s motivation, least of all Lady Jersey: vouchers for Almack’s. Max saw Romilla catch her breath, Evangeline go white under her placid smile, and Gail raise a curious eyebrow, as Lady Jersey took a long probing look at their party. Finally, she smiled again, albeit thinly.
“We’ll see,” was all she said, before conveniently seeing that she was being hailed by another carriage and took her leave.
Romilla’s face was impassive as stone, but her eyes flashed with intensity and anticipation. This was war, socially speaking, and she was ready to face down all the challenges. But she smothered the look so quickly, if Max had blinked he would have missed it.
And so it went on. Everyone that stopped by the carriage gave cordial greetings to Romilla, smiling warmly at Evangeline and acknowledging she looked particularly well, with sly looks toward Max. Everyone got a good look at Max riding with the Alton girls and under the supervision and approval of the stepmother. However, Max noted no one said much to Gail. Odd, that. She was irritating for certain, but she also had obvious intelligence, a keen and ripe sense of humor, and was pretty, in a manner. But no one looked her way.
The Fontaine/Alton party soon left Rotten Row, and made their way at a brisk pace around the park, far enough from the main roads, but still in sighting distance of those who made it their business to watch. They were now free to converse openly, although Romilla instructed everyone to keep a congenial look or smile on his or her face the whole ride.
Once they were able to speak freely, however, a problem arose. No one had anything to say.
Oh, Romilla tried to engage in conversation. She started by noting, however sarcastically, how polite Lady Jersey had been and how nice the Pickering girls looked in their matching habits, adding that no one will ever be able to tell them apart until they start making use of their differences. She even tried to draw Max and Evangeline into a dialogue by discussing plans for the next few days and evenings, but to no avail.
Max’s mind was curiously drawn to his earlier behavior toward Gail and gave short answers. Evangeline’s answers were even shorter. She kept her eyes down and over, anywhere but on the three other people in the carriage.
Romilla finally gave up on her social graces and gave Max a solid kick on the toe to get him to talk.
And he did, once he realized through Romilla’s remarkably pointy shoe that, as their de facto host, the burden of conversation was rightly on his shoulders. He tried to think of anything to say to Evangeline—but found his mouth dry and his mind blank. What to say? What were her interests? He couldn’t even move to touch her hand under Romilla’s watchful eye, and he certainly couldn’t mention their previous meeting in range of her attentive ear.
And of course, there was the added presence of Gail.
How did he court Evangeline with the irksome sister always watching, her sharp eyes and wit on hand and ready to slay him down to size? She would smirk and say something smart, and it would hit him dead in the chest.
Then again, Gail had barely said a word since her nearly tearful speech on the doorstep. She had observed his and Romilla’s attempts at conversation, but never entered it, nor, he noted, had she been invited.
Hard to think this hellcat would wait for an invitation. But if he didn’t know better, he’d think Gail was rather…subdued.
Her sister wasn’t fairing much better. Max had tried subjects he thought might pique her interest. Fashion, the countryside, music.
“What did you think of Mrs. Reed’s latest Gothic novel?”
“I’m sorry, I haven’t read it.”
“What’s your opinion of the tragedy in Norfolk?”
“It’s, ah, terribly tragic, indeed.”
“Do you enjoy being back in England?”
“Very much, my Lord.”
None of her answers were snappish; they were simply short—as if she couldn’t think of a thing to say, either.
Nerves, it seemed, had overtaken the whole carriage.
Victuals that had been packed in a basket were opened in the hopes everyone would comment on the food, but no one was hungry.
After a turn and a half round the park, they admitted defeat. They waved good-bye to the afternoon riders they passed and returned to Number Seven Berkeley Square in silence.
AS Max escorted the ladies to the door, Romilla turned and asked him to stay for dinner.
It was an order, not a request, but Max couldn’t think of anything he cared to avoid more. Claiming a previous engagement, Max made his regrets and promised to call in the morning. He bowed to Romilla and then turned to his intended. Evangeline looked frailly beautiful, but was still appallingly silent. She seemed outwardly serene, but had a death grip on her sister’s hand.
He looked at that hand, holding on to Gail’s as if she derived all her strength from that connection. Evangeline was acutely uncomfortable, and Gail was the only thing holding her together. Funny, Max mused. Given that on his previous meetings with Gail she had been a complete mess, he would have thought Evangeline the stronger of the two.
Max bowed to her, but dared not try to kiss her hand. As he took his leave of the Alton ladies and rode down the street, he reviewed the atrocious afternoon in his head.
Although Romilla’s presence had done a great deal to stable their connection socially, it did nothing to help it grow. Indeed, a parent’s presence could cause any growing tendresse to falter.
Gail’s presence didn’t help either.
What he needed was a way to rid himself of Romilla and Gail for the duration of the courtship. Then, the image of Evangeline’s hand securely in Gail’s flashed into Max’s mind. Evangeline would probably want her sister there, at least for a bit, for her own peace of mind, even if it meant he would have to face her. Romilla’s earlier dictate was that there always be at least one family member present. Gail was marginally the lesser of two evils, but he would at least need a way to distract her—and maybe keep her obnoxious comments away from him.
Max made a decision, and a sharp turn off his intended path.
He needed help.
He needed a friend.