Chapter Eight

“How hard it is in some cases to be believed! And how impossible in others!”

—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

“Of course, when that young woman first conducted me to your aunt’s bedchamber, I was of a mind to report her to the nearest magistrate.”

A few minutes in Dr. Findlay’s presence had convinced Max that the physician wasn’t the plausible rogue he’d expected. A snowy-haired, blunt-spoken Scotsman with a degree from one of the finest medical schools in the world, Findlay had made it clear he was a busy man and could spare Lord Davenham ten minutes only. His manner implied he had more interest in treating the poor than pandering to the whims of aristocrats.

“And yet you didn’t.”

“No, not when I realized they’d only just arrived and found her like that.” The doctor shook his head. “The state that puir woman was in!”

Max’s gut clenched. “Please elucidate.”

“Filthy, emaciated, dehydrated—I’ve seen street beggars in better condition than your aunt.”

Guilt lashed at Max. He should have come home sooner. “How long ago was this?”

“Three weeks.”

He frowned. Only three weeks? It didn’t add up. “You say the misses Chance had only recently arrived at my aunt’s?”

“Aye, but no’ recently—they’d arrived that verra day. Their first act was to fetch me to attend her—they wanted to bathe and feed her, but they feared to move her before getting a medical opinion. Quite right too. Verra frail the old lady was.”

“And still is.”

“Och, she’s coming along nicely now. Those nieces of hers are devoted to her care. Your sisters, are they?”

“No.” Max was about to deny all relationship, either to himself or Aunt Bea, but prudence won out. “They’re not from my side of the family at all.”

Again he wondered who they were and where they had come from.

How had they met an ill, bedridden old lady? People didn’t simply arrive in a city, find an old lady in need and move in with her.

And if what the doctor said was true—and he had no reason to doubt the man—why had they taken it upon themselves to save her?

What was their connection to his aunt?

What had Miss Chance said? Lazy and neglectful servants? Was that how she’d come to meet Aunt Bea, through some connection with the servants?

But if that were the case, why would she have sacked them? Perkins said she’d sacked the entire staff.

“Aye, your aunt’s in verra safe hands with Miss Abigail Chance in charge. She’s a young lady who knows exactly what to do and does it without any roundaboutation. Lady Beatrice is flourishing under her care.”

It was an uncanny echo of what she’d said about the doctor.

“Your aunt must be verra grateful to have those young ladies with her, as are you, I’m sure.”

Max didn’t know what he felt. This whole situation was . . . murky. Confusing. But he’d get to the bottom of it.

The doctor continued. “Like a breath of fresh air, they are.” He gave a bark of laughter. “Literally. The first time I went there the house was like a dusty mausoleum. Apart from the bedchamber, which—without beating about the bush—stank like the worst slum dwelling.”

The doctor’s plain speaking was like a punch to Max’s gut. He’d been all wrong about Miss Chance and her sisters. It seemed they truly had rescued Aunt Bea from a dire situation. And he wasn’t ungrateful.

There was no denying the pleasure his aunt took in the girls’ company. And much as it galled him to admit it, according to this doctor they were taking good care of her.

But how did they get there in the first place? And why? And who were they really? Those questions still bothered him.

“I believe you prescribed excitement for Aunt Beatrice.”

“Aye, she’s no’ ill anymore, simply worn down, weak and mentally dispirited. Aye, I know what you’re going to say—she’s frail—and that’s true. But underneath that, her constitution is as strong as a horse—she’d no’ have survived such a long period of neglect otherwise. Physically what she needs is building up, with good food and exercise, and I’ve given the lassie—forgive me, Miss Chance—a tonic of my own devising that will strengthen her blood. Mentally . . .” He shook his head.

“Mentally?”

“Aye, she was sinking into a decline when I first came on her. Dwelling on morbid thoughts, that kind of thing. Melancholia.”

Max stared at him, deeply shocked. Aunt Bea had never suffered from melancholia in her life. He remembered what she’d said: Things change when you’ve been ill. It gives you a new perspective on life.

The doctor eyed him with shrewd blue eyes. “Och, don’t look like that, m’lord; she’s improved a great deal, but you’ll find when she’s tired, she might get a bit weepy and despondent. So a bit of young life around her is exactly what she needs. Friends, activity, excitement. Give her a reason to wake up in the morning, something to look forward to each day.”

Max left the doctor’s in a much chastened mood. There was no question now of getting rid of the girls, even if he could, at least until his aunt had fully recovered.

He didn’t know what to think. After all his work, all the time he’d spent in exile on the other side of the world, repairing the family fortunes, reliant on nobody—and now, to be beholden to this snip of a girl, a female he knew to be a liar and an impostor—and a girl, what was more, to whom he found himself attracted at the most inconvenient of moments. It was unbearable. Unacceptable.

He’d find out who she was and what she was up to—and then, dammit, he’d decide whether he was grateful to her or not.

And he was not attracted to her. It was just a . . . an odd moment. A result of being too long at sea. Nothing a bit of self-discipline couldn’t cure.

She’d left her umbrella in the hackney with that hateful man, but Abby didn’t care. She lifted her face to the sky and let the cool, misty drizzle mingle with the few angry tears that had escaped.

Wretched, suspicious man.

Of course, he had a right to wonder about her motives—she was a stranger, after all. But it was just like the way he’d first arrived—barging in like a . . . a Viking raider, assuming the worst. Couldn’t he simply have asked, like any civilized man would?

How did you meet my aunt?

Apparently you flew in her window like a good fairy.

She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her face dry. Perhaps he had a point. But if he hadn’t rubbed her the wrong way in the first place . . .

Surely he could see they were taking good care of his aunt. That they sincerely cared about her.

She called in at the post office, but there was still no character reference from Mrs. Bodkin. Nor a response from the vicar in Hereford or Sir Walter Greevey, for that matter, though she wasn’t really expecting anything from them; she’d informed them both that although Jane had been kidnapped on the way to Hereford, she was now safe in London with her older sister. Clearly neither of them was interested in investigating how that had happened.

She hadn’t mentioned where she’d found Jane. The fewer people who knew that the better.

After the post office, she did her shopping and walked home via the riverbank. She always found it a soothing walk, watching the ripples on the water and the traffic on the Thames. Even when the stench of the river was at its worst, she still found it fascinating. It was another world.

This time, however, she found herself stomping along the pathway, taking little notice of her surroundings. Her mind kept spitting up bits of the conversation—well, you could hardly call it a conversation, more like a tirade.

You wouldn’t want to know what I think of the kind of harpy who takes advantage of a sick, lonely old woman. . . . Worming your way into my aunt’s life . . . treating her home and possessions as your own . . . I’d like to strangle you. . . . I should haul you and those others off to the nearest magistrate.

Wretched man. Yes, she’d pretended to be his aunt’s niece, but only to get admitted to the house that first time. It was Lady Beatrice who’d continued the falsehood. And he knew it to be a falsehood—they all did—so it wasn’t truly a deception. Who was harmed by it? Nobody.

She’d cared for his aunt when nobody else did.

She was also using a false name, her conscience reminded her. But he didn’t know that. And it was for a very good reason—the protection of her sisters.

All right, there might be some justification for him to be suspicious of her. But had he bothered to ask about why she was living with his aunt? No, he’d just jumped to the worst possible conclusion. And then . . .

That moment when he’d leaned closer in the darkness of the hackney . . . his breath warm on her skin, and she’d thought . . . she’d imagined . . . A shiver rippled through her.

Nonsense. As if he’d kiss her, a man like him. He’d wanted to strangle her.

And then he’d offered her a horrid bribe.

Wait till she told the others about that!

After leaving the doctor’s office, Max took a hackney to the London office of Flynn & Co. Oriental Trading to see his man Bartlett.

Max had first appointed Bartlett to manage his personal affairs when Max was eighteen and about to depart for India. He wished now that he’d insisted Bartlett also watch over his aunt, but she’d been loyal to Perkins senior at the time, and refused to change.

Bartlett had proved to be an exemplary man of business, and when Max first became the “& Co.” part of Flynn & Co. Oriental Trading, he’d nominated Bartlett as the London representative of the company. Bartlett had handled it so well that after five years they’d made him a minor partner.

Max was shocked when he met Bartlett again. In the nine years since Max had last seen him, Bartlett had gone almost completely bald. He was plump and rosy and looked almost middle-aged. It was a shock.

Bartlett was only a few years older than Max.

But cut from quite different cloth, Max reminded himself. Bartlett was a family man through and through—he’d been married and a father already when Max had first employed him.

Max inquired after Mrs. Bartlett and the children. “How many is it now?”

“Five,” said Bartlett proudly. “All girls, but there’s another one on the way, and we’re hoping for a boy.”

Max blinked. The man was barely past thirty. Max tried to imagine himself with five children. Six. He couldn’t.

That fate awaited him in the future. The near future. He thrust the thought aside and got down to business.

Once the company business was dealt with—not that there was a lot; it was all in excellent order—Max raised the question of the books he’d confiscated from Perkins.

“I’ve only had time for a quick glance through,” Bartlett said, “but even so, there are a few obvious discrepancies.”

“Discrepancies?”

“The servants appointed by Miss Chance, for instance.”

Max stiffened. “Yes?”

“There don’t seem to be enough.”

Max gave him a sharp look. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Perkins was paying a staff of twelve, but Miss Chance—leaving off the allowances for herself and her sisters, and disregarding the temporary help she got in when she first took over—I imagine for a spring clean; women like to put their own stamp on a house—she has only appointed six permanent servants: a butler, footman, cook, two housemaids and a scullery maid.” He turned the book in Max’s direction and indicated the entries. “Why would she need fewer servants? It’s a big house.”

“Twelve? She told me she’d sacked four servants—‘all four of them,’ she said.” He recalled her words exactly.

“Aha.” Bartlett made a note. “Then it’s just a matter of finding out who was pocketing the extra—Perkins or Caudle, the former butler. I shall investigate.”

“I plan to call in at Bow Street after this,” Max told him. “A number of my aunt’s valuables have gone missing. I believe Caudle to be responsible. I shall refer the runner to you, as well. Keep me informed.”

“Of course.” Bartlett made another note and closed the Perkins accounts.

Max watched him arrange his papers. Very organized was Bartlett. The secret of his success. “Do you know of a good man who can make discreet inquiries?”

“Not related to the Bow Street matters, my lord?”

“No. Personal.”

Bartlett considered the matter. “Morton Black might do it.”

“Morton Black?”

“A most discreet and efficient man. He’s employed by a Mr. Sebastian Reyne, but he occasionally takes on private assignments. If you like I could send a note around and see if he’s available.”

Max nodded. “Ask him to call on me at Davenham House tomorrow morning.”

“Of course. Will half past nine suit, or is that too early?”

Max nodded. He was not yet used to town hours. He was used to being up at dawn. “Half past nine will do nicely.”

Bartlett wrote it down in his notebook.

“Next, find me a house,” Max said.

“Bachelor quarters, I presume.”

“No, a house. Somewhere in Mayfair.”

Bartlett’s eyes lit up. “Are we anticipating a happy event, my lord?” he asked with a coy smile.

Max stared at him blankly. “A happy what?”

“A wedding, sir.” Bartlett beamed at him.

Max had no intention of discussing it, not until he had finalized his plans. “Davenham House is no longer suitable, so I’m moving my aunt and myself to a more convenient location.”

“And the four girls?”

“I haven’t made up my mind about them yet, but make allowances just in case.” He was damned sure Aunt Bea would kick up if he tried to separate her from those girls. Hard enough to move her in the first place. But he’d do it.

Bartlett chuckled happily. “Petticoat government for you, then, my lord. I know just what that’s like, ha, ha.”

Max looked at him. Petticoat government? Over his dead body. “Just find the house.”

The jolliness disappeared from Bartlett’s face. “Quite so, my lord. Do you wish to buy or lease?”

“Buy for preference, but if nothing suitable is available, then a lease will do for the moment. I want my aunt out of Davenham House as soon as possible.”

“I see. Speed is of the essence.” Bartlett made a note. “I take it Lady Beatrice is happy about the move.”

Max grimaced. “She doesn’t know about it yet. But whether she wants to or not, she’s going to move. But first, find me the house. Something modern, spacious and in the first style of elegance. Make a short list and I’ll make the final decision.”

“Of course, my lord. I shall do my best to find something worthy of her ladyship.”

“And do it quickly,” Max said as he rose to take his leave. “The sooner the better.” He wasn’t looking forward to the fuss Aunt Bea would make about leaving Davenham House. But she’d do it, he vowed.

Next, Max made a visit to Bow Street. He gave them the particulars of his aunt’s former servants, especially the man Caudle. The fellow didn’t seem particularly skilled at covering his tracks; a Bow Street Runner would soon run him to earth.

Max was far from confident that Aunt Bea’s stolen possessions would be recovered—most of her jewelry had long been copied in paste before being sold by her spendthrift husband—but he’d never been able to get her to give up her rings; they’d been the genuine article. Still, as long as Caudle was caught and punished to the full extent of the law, he’d be satisfied. He couldn’t have the fellow punished for his real crime—his neglect and abuse of Aunt Bea. A trial on those grounds would be too publicly humiliating for her—but theft, embezzlement and fraud would do nicely.

He didn’t mention the misses Chance to the Bow Street Runner he briefed. He’d leave Miss Abigail Chance and her sisters to Morton Black to investigate.

Outside Bow Street it took him fifteen minutes before he was able to hail another hackney cab. He was getting fed up with this. He needed his own carriage. A visit to Tattersalls was in order.

But first he’d pay a call on his oldest friend, Freddy Monkton-Coombes.

“He called you a harpy? And accused you of taking advantage?” Jane echoed. “How dare he?”

The four girls had gathered in Abby’s bedchamber. She was telling them about her quarrel with Lord Davenham in the hackney. They were all satisfyingly indignant on her behalf.

“And then he said he’d offer me a handsome sum to leave his aunt’s home and never return.”

There was a sudden silence.

“How much?” Daisy asked.

Abby blinked at the question. “I don’t know. It never occurred to me to ask.”

“But you said it was a handsome sum,” Jane said.

“Yes, they were his actual words. He didn’t give any specific figure.” She waited for the outburst of indignation. Didn’t they understand the insult? “It was a horrid bribe!” she said.

There was an awkward silence. Abby looked at each of them and understanding slowly dawned. “You think I should have accepted? Taken his bribe? Admit that we have indeed been doing something wrong? Confirm his vile opinion of us?”

The silence stretched, and Abby read the shameful truth in their eyes.

“I know it’s not very nice of him, Abby, but . . . we need the money,” Jane said. “We’re still planning to go to Bath, aren’t we?”

Abby stared at her, crushed. They thought she’d done the wrong thing. They thought she should have swallowed the insult and taken the money. Instead she’d flung it back in his teeth without even considering it. Considering them.

“A handsome sum” might buy a cottage for Damaris, help Daisy begin her business, fund Abby and Jane for a season in Bath.

“After all, Lady Beatrice won’t need us now that her nephew is here to look after her,” Damaris said. “And if he doesn’t want us here . . . It is his house.”

“And it’s not as if Lady Bea can introduce us to society,” Jane added. “Everyone knows she has no nieces.”

“And we’re using a false name,” Daisy reminded them. She’d never approved of the false name, even though she accepted its necessity.

“So we’ll probably have to leave soon anyway,” Jane finished. “And a handsome sum would have helped. You needn’t think of it as a bribe, Abby—why not look at it as a farewell gift, a thank-you for helping Lady Beatrice?”

Because it was a bribe, Abby thought, but she didn’t say it. Her sisters’ disloyalty shattered her. No, not disloyalty, she decided—thoughtlessness. They were young and eager to get on with their lives. Jane, in particular, was desperate to meet young men and fall in love, and Abby couldn’t blame her for that in the least—in fact she rejoiced in the knowledge that Jane had emerged from that vile place unscathed.

None of them cared what Lord Davenham thought of them. All they were thinking of was their future. And they’d lived so close to disaster for so long that they were willing to snatch at any chance. Just as she’d risked everything to burgle this house.

“Well, it’s too late now,” she said. “I rejected it in no uncertain terms.” And left him stinging with insult into the bargain. The lowering thought occurred to her that if he tried to bribe her a second time, she’d fling it in his teeth just as hard. Harder.

Regardless of what her sisters wanted.

Because, she realized slowly, she did care what Lord Davenham thought of her.

And that was the most lowering thought of all. She had no reason to care. He was nothing but a rude, insulting, arrogant Viking!

* * *

“Good God, it’s a pirate!” Freddy Monkton-Coombes declared by way of greeting. He grinned as he wrung Max’s hand hard and thumped him on the back.

Max did a bit of grinning and thumping of his own. “If you think I look like a pirate, you won’t know what’s hit you when you meet Flynn. He’s arriving in London in a month or so, weather permitting.”

Freddy snorted. “I care nothing for Flynn. But you!” He eyed Max with a mock-critical expression and shook his head. “You’ve fallen to pieces in the last ten years.”

Max raised his brows and glanced down at himself. “Odd, and here I thought I was quite an impressive specimen.”

“Of piratehood, perhaps,” Freddy said dismissively. “Don’t they carry razors or scissors on ships anymore? And is that a leather thong you’ve tied that mop back with?” He shuddered.

Max pulled the thong off. His hair fell around his face. He inspected the thong. “Yes, it’s leather. Well spotted.” He tossed it to Freddy, who caught it deftly, then dropped it disdainfully on the floor.

He eyed the length of Max’s hair and said dryly, “Just in time. Any longer and you’d look more like a mermaid than a pirate!”

Max laughed.

“It’s no joking matter; you used to look almost elegant,” Freddy informed him. “Almost. You never could come up to my standards.”

Max stood back and inspected Freddy’s attire. “Is that what you’re wearing? Standards?”

It being a mere hour or two after the crack of noon, Freddy had only just woken. He was attired for his breakfast in a black silk dressing gown embroidered with scarlet dragons. On his feet were a pair of red leather Turkish slippers.

“I am setting a fashion,” said Freddy with an air of great dignity.

Max pulled out a chair and sat down. “You’re dining alone where nobody can see you.”

“Well, good God, you don’t think I’d wear this in public, do you? It was a gift from a lady. Besides, I’m not dining alone. You’re here. What will you have? I can recommend the sausages. Pork with a hint of fennel and a touch of hot spice. Made especially for me by an Italian butcher.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Max said, sitting down in the place hastily set by Freddy’s man. A lot had happened since his first breakfast, and he was ravenous. He poured himself an ale from the jug on the table. “Ahh, good English ale, how I’ve missed it.”

“So, are you back in England for good?” Freddy asked as he tucked into his breakfast.

“I am.” Max chewed with relish. The sausages were all Freddy had claimed.

“And what brought you back early? You did say when you left you’d be away for ten years, did you not? Or have I misremembered?”

“No, I’m back nearly a year early. My aunt. She hasn’t been well.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. How is she now?”

“Out of danger and improving.” As they ate and drank, Max filled Freddy in on all that had happened.

“So she’s being looked after now by this young woman and her sisters? Pretending to be nieces but they’re no relation, you say? Odd, that.”

“Yes, but I’ll get to the bottom of that little mystery.”

“Pretty?”

Max looked up. “What?”

“Any of them pretty?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

Freddy shook his head mournfully. “Max, Max, Max! What did they do to you out there in the Wilds of Foreign, apart from making you—both of us—delightfully rich, that you fail to see the importance of whether the girls your aunt has taken in are pretty or not? It’s of the first importance.”

“Why?”

“Because I might want to meet them.”

Max thought about his handsome, charming and elegant friend meeting Miss Chance and decided he didn’t want Freddy anywhere near her. Or her sisters. “You don’t.”

Freddy’s face fell. “Dull?”

“Very.” It was for Freddy’s own good, Max told himself.

“Ugly?”

“Plain as a box of toads,” Max said, warming to his theme. “But kindhearted. Sweet natured. Very . . .” He tried to think of something that would quench Freddy’s interest once and for all. “Very earnest. They read a lot.” That was true. From what he could gather, they read lurid novels by the boxful, aloud to his aunt.

Freddy pulled a face. “In that case, they’re your problem.”

“You don’t intend to help me?” Max feigned mild indignation.

“Not with a bunch of muffin-faced bluestockings,” Freddy said callously. “I’ve met the type before. For some reason they always want to reform me. Through marriage.” He shuddered. “Horrible thought.” He slathered a piece of toast with butter and marmalade, glanced at Max and said, “The mater has started to harp.”

“On marriage?”

Freddy nodded. “Wants me to settle down with a nice serious girl. A serious one! What would I do with a serious girl, I ask you? I’m frivolous to the bone.” He contemplated his toast for a moment, then bit into it. “The mater wants to reform me too. Talks wistfully of heirs, and dandling babies on her lap before she dies. She’s barely fifty, not that she’d admit to it.”

“You’ve changed.”

“How?”

“Since when have you ever taken a scrap of notice of your mother’s desires?”

Again Freddy pulled a face. “I know, but she’s gradually wearing me down. Women are good at that. It’s exhausting.” He took a reviving mouthful of ale. “So, where are you staying?”

“Davenham House, for the moment. With my aunt.”

“With a houseful of muffins?” Freddy said, shocked. “You can’t! You’ll come out of your bedchamber one morning in your smalls and a dressing gown and next minute you’ll find one of them shrieking the house down that you’ve compromised them. And demanding marriage.”

Max laughed. “That sounds like the voice of experience.”

“It is,” Freddy assured him. “House party last year. I’d spent a very pleasant evening in the arms of a lady who shall remain nameless—married, of course, and horribly neglected by her fool of a husband—and was returning to my room in the wee small hours when a dratted muffin saw me—though what the devil a supposedly respectable spinster was doing creeping around the corridors at that hour, I’d like to know.” He thought about it and grimaced. “No, I wouldn’t. Anyway, she set up such a screeching anyone would think I’d murdered her in her bed.”

“And yet you escaped wedded bliss with this, er, muffin?”

Freddy grinned. “Her father was one of those fire-and-brimstone types. Was horrified at the prospect of a notorious rake—did you know? I’m notorious, apparently!—marrying his precious virgin daughter. Gave me a blistering lecture about my morals and told me to begone at once. Well, I didn’t need to be told twice, did I? I damned well bewent as fast as my curricle would take me. Had just taken possession of my grays. Beautiful movers they are—and fast! You’ll be green with envy. Sixteen miles an hour.”

Max threw back his head and laughed. It was so good to see Freddy again. ”That reminds me: I’m in need of a carriage and pair. I’ve no transport. Want to come with me to Tattersalls tomorrow?”

“Delighted to, but if it’s a pair you want, Simpson is selling his matched bays—poor fellow is rolled up. Lovely goers, nearly as good as my grays. Certainly better than anything coming up at Tattersalls. I’ll take you to see them tomorrow if you like, make a day of it. They’re at his place out at Richmond.”

“Excellent,” Max said.

“So, why aren’t you putting up at the club?”

“Can’t. Haven’t been a member for nearly ten years.”

Freddy looked appalled. “Well, you can’t stay with your aunt and the muffins. Stay here tonight. You can have the sofa. We’ll dine at the club and I’ll put you up for membership immediately.”

“I can’t. I told my aunt I’d be back at dinnertime.”

“She’s an invalid, ain’t she? It’ll be soup and toast on a tray in her bedchamber for her, so you won’t be dining there unless it’s with a pack of muffins. Why not drop in on Lady Beatrice, do the pretty for five minutes and then come out with me?”

Max considered it. It wasn’t as if his aunt would be alone. And an evening in Freddy’s company, eating good English food at the club, was very appealing. “Good idea.”

Freddy jumped up and rang the bell for his manservant. “But before you go anywhere, I’ll have my man give you a shave and a decent haircut. I’m not taking a blasted pirate to the club. They’d blackball you in an instant. Where are the rest of your clothes? Still on board the ship? I’ll get someone to fetch them. Not that they’ll be suitable, I suppose. I’ll make you an appointment with my tailor.”

Max grinned. “I can’t wait for you to meet Flynn.”