Max stared down in utter astonishment at the documents his steward had spread before him. A fortune of thirty thousand pounds had been squandered in the course of five years—or rather, four. This past year in France, Bram had lived on credit and the monthly offerings of their mother. “How can this be?”
Obviously sharp enough to understand a rhetorical question, Mr. MacDonald remained silent but merely lifted his brows in a shrug. After all, the evidence spoke for itself.
The final page was even more damning. According to a letter from the caretaker, the tenants at Bram’s estate in Devon were living in squalor and sickness. Bram had disregarded every appeal for assistance and had chosen instead to live lavishly in France. Until recently, he was even keeping a mistress in a fine house with a slew of servants. When the shop owners and jewelers had closed their doors on him, however, he immediately booked passage to England.
It was even worse than Max imagined. “Have you contacted all of Lord Engle’s creditors?”
His steward nodded but with measurable hesitation that sent a bolt of wariness through Max. “I should have a total for you by Friday next, my lord.”
“Very good, Mr. MacDonald,” he said. “After your exhaustive efforts this week, I shall see that you receive suitable compensation.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“I do have one additional request, however,” Max said with a glance toward the rosewood clock on the mantel. It was still early. Yet ever since Mother had told him that Lady Cosgrove and Juliet would call around eleven, anticipation made each minute stretch into an hour. “Later this morning, I would like to schedule a meeting with both my brother and you to go over the entries within this ledger, which you and I have already discussed at length.”
Mr. MacDonald’s copper-penny eyes squinted in confusion. “I’m not certain I understand, my lord.”
Max knew he sounded rather cryptic, but it was desperation driving him. “In a few hours, I would like you to keep Lord Engle busy, here in this study, while I am . . . attending an errand.”
He cleared his throat, hoping he didn’t have to be more specific. He needed to see Juliet for the sake of his own sanity. And without his brother there to spoil anything.
This past week, Max had been driven to the brink again and again with every moment spent in his brother’s company.
Then, during the few moments they had been apart, astoundingly enough, Bram had managed to accrue more debts.
He’d sent his own servants on errands, having them gad about town and then sneak back here. Word from the servants loyal to Harwick House was that Bram’s tailor was fashioning seven new suits. Not to mention the constant deliveries of top hats, boots, walking sticks, and other baubles for a gentleman’s every occasion.
During that time, Max had drafted at least four dozen letters to Juliet, trying to explain that there was no debutante. But every letter he wrote ended up sounding like a proposal of marriage. In the end, he knew it would be better to speak with her face-to-face.
With any luck, he would have that chance soon.
Juliet had spent the rest of the week planning the nursery with Ivy, visiting Lilah in her new home, and keeping Gemma distracted with shopping excursions and morning calls. Peculiarly, even while in the company of her friends, these had been the longest seven days of Juliet’s life.
The balls and parties she’d attended were completely dull affairs. The rain, having been steady all week, kept her from enjoying her walks in the park. And each time she was alone in her bedchamber, she would stare for moments on end at the birdcage door that she’d hung in front of her vanity mirror.
“And now the door is always open,” Max had said.
At the time, Juliet had imagined a greater meaning to his words, believing that Max was saying that he wanted more between them. Yet apparently she’d been mistaken.
Still, she missed Max. Since her return to London, this had been the longest period of time she’d gone without seeing him.
“Madame,” Marguerite said from over her shoulder as she fastened the buttons of Juliet’s gown. “You are sighing again.”
“I was?” Instantly, Juliet straightened her shoulders and drew in a deep, cleansing breath. Of late, she’d been revealing far too much of her thoughts. She’d always prided herself on her composure, but now she didn’t know what had come over her. “Forgive me, Marguerite. I have turned into a stranger, both to you and to myself.”
She tsked. “You are the same madame I have always known, but he does not deserve your sighs. A man who would take you to his bed when he is planning to marry another deserves your spite.”
Juliet agreed. She only wished she could convince her heart to hate him again. “What happened between us wasn’t planned. In fact, we were in the midst of an argument.”
Marguerite harrumphed. “You needed to put the past to rest, and now that is done. But I still do not like him.”
Put the past to rest. Hmm . . . Was that the true reason behind their intimate clash? Perhaps the pent-up emotions and animosity over the years had all come out in a rather unexpected way. Juliet was mature enough to understand how something like that could happen, she supposed. And yet, she had been certain there was more than that between them. At least for her.
Apparently, the same had not been true for Max.
Juliet drew in another fortifying breath instead of listlessly exhaling. This morning, both Zinnia and she intended to visit Marjorie at Harwick House. If Max should happen to be there, then Juliet would simply greet him as she had done prior to their . . . collision. As always, she would conceal the truth of her feelings and the raw wound he’d left upon her heart.
The only problem was that she wasn’t at all certain she could control her emotions as she once had. For some reason, she felt as if Max had unlocked something within her and then had taken the key with him.