Saxon winced. “He’s lucky Julian was still confined to the house at the time—”
“Or he wouldn’t have any teeth left,” Max agreed ruefully.
“Bloody well right he wouldn’t.” Julian thumped the table with his good hand. “Twenty voyages and at least a million in profits I’ve made for them in the last twelve years—and they think I’m ready for a pension? At the age of thirty? Ha! I’ll have a deck under my feet again in time to catch the westerlies around the Cape of Good Hope this winter.”
“Absolutely,” Max said firmly.
“The Lady Valiant is yours whenever you want her,” Saxon offered, “if the Company doesn’t come through in time.”
“They will.” Julian’s confident smile returned. “They’ll have to. They can’t afford to lose me. I’m the best they have.”
“Second best,” Saxon proclaimed with mock indignation.
“Best.” Julian bestowed a grin in his older brother’s general direction.
“According to whom?”
“According to Yellowbeard of Grosvenor Square.”
The three of them laughed again, but Max exchanged another silent, concerned look with Saxon, recognizing Julian’s mood now.
The Spanish had a word for it: bravado.
Julian had always been a boundless optimist, but he seemed to be using that quality as a shield now, a defense against possibilities too frightening to face. If—God forbid, if—he didn’t get his sight back, Julian wouldn’t need another ship. The East India Company would have no use for a blind captain. His illustrious career would be finished.
He wouldn’t be going back to sea. Ever.
Max didn’t want to think of what that would mean to his brother. The D’Avenant family had been sailing for the East India Company since it was chartered over a hundred and fifty years ago. Max had missed out on those crucial years when the men of his family normally went to sea, and truth be told, he didn’t regret it, because it had allowed him to pursue his own interests.
But Julian, like Saxon, was a vivid example of why Londoners said that D’Avenants were born with salt water instead of blood in their veins: he loved the sea and the wind more than life and breath.
That fact troubled Max for another reason as well. Seeing Julian reminded him of his duty. Reminded him that he could not let his love for Marie make him forget his mission. He had to ensure that what had happened to Julian’s Rising Star never happened to another English ship.
Julian leaned back in his chair and propped his boots on the table. “But enough about me, lad. We’ve come all this way to hear about your Grand Tour.”
“Julian,” Saxon interrupted before Max could speak, “I think we’re going to have to stop calling him ‘lad’.” Settling more deeply in his seat, he regarded Max with the critical eye of an experienced commander used to sizing up men. “The scholarly fellow who left a few weeks ago seems to have sent someone else home in his place. This man has a sharper look about him. A few lines in his face, a firm set to his jaw. Even seems taller somehow. And there’s an unusual intensity in his eyes—”
“It’s the dark clothes,” Max insisted, giving an uneasy shrug. He had thought—hoped—that the change he sensed in himself was only a mental, internal difference. But if Saxon had noticed it in a matter of minutes, it was clearly more profound than that.
“I don’t think it’s the clothes, Max,” Saxon said with an air of approval.
Julian turned in Max’s direction. “Now I really must hear of your travels.” He waggled both eyebrows again. “Every detail.”
Max’s rueful grin became a frown. Every detail. He slouched lower in his chair. Truth be told, it had been a relief to think about problems other than his own, even for a few minutes. But it was time to confess the real reason he had asked Saxon to meet him here. “It’s rather a long story.” He nodded toward the door. “Perhaps we should order some food—”
“No thanks.” Julian shook his head. “We had dinner before we left.”
Max was about to point out that that had been at least ten hours ago, but a quick signal from Saxon cut him off and made him realize what Julian had left unsaid: eating and drinking would be a difficult, even potentially embarrassing, chore when one couldn’t see the plates, the food, or the utensils.
“It was good of you to go to the expense of renting a private dining salon,” Julian continued, unaware of the gestures passing between his brothers, “but we could have met in your room. Unless of course,” he added with a sly grin, “you have company.”
“Actually, I do.”
That turned Julian’s grin into a gape and made Saxon’s eyes widen in surprise.
“Company that I…uh…don’t want you to meet,” Max explained haltingly. “Actually, it’s not so much that I don’t want you to meet her as I don’t want her to see either one of you.”
For once, it appeared he had rendered his elder siblings speechless.
“She’s the real reason I’ve asked you here.” He thrust himself up from his chair, suddenly unable to sit still. “As I said, I’m afraid I’ve got some explaining to do. Rather a lot of explaining.” Pacing over to a cart in one corner, he picked up one of the crystal decanters it held. “To start with…I haven’t been on a Grand Tour at all. I’ve been in France.”
His brothers regarded him in stunned silence.
“I don’t believe this,” Saxon muttered in a tone of astonishment as he watched what Max was doing.
“That he’s been in France?” Julian turned his head toward the sound of glass clinking.
“That he’s pouring himself a drink.”
Max raised the bottle of port. “Would anyone else like one?”
“No thanks,” Julian said reluctantly.
“I’ll take one.” Saxon’s tone of disbelief continued as Max drained half his drink, refilled it, and splashed port into another glass. “Somehow I think I’m going to need it. What exactly have you been up to in France, little brother?”
Max came back to the table, slid the glass across the polished walnut surface to his brother, and reclaimed his seat. “I suppose I should start at the beginning.” Sighing heavily, feeling older than his twenty-six years, he glanced at Julian. “It all started a fortnight after the explosion that sank the Rising Star, Jules. I received a note one night at the house. A note affixed with the royal seal…”
It took almost an hour simply to relate the facts. And that’s how he tried to do it. Simply. He didn’t mention his feelings for Marie or the intimate details of their relationship, wanting to deal only with cold, hard truth in as rational a way as possible…knowing that any thought of Marie would make him utterly irrational.
He told them about his meeting with Wolf and Fleming, the explosive chemical compound developed by the French, and the danger to the British fleet—and even Britain herself. He explained that the Crown wanted this brilliant lady scientist and her secrets so they could possess the weapon. He talked about how he had abducted Marie and kept her hidden in Paris, and his failed efforts to bring back her memory of the chemical formula.
By the time he detailed the ambush in Loiret, their escape into Spain, and their arrival here the day before, he felt exhausted. His throat had gone dry. He didn’t think he could say another word.
But his brothers had a great many questions and began the barrage even as he rose to refill his glass.
“Why, Max?” Julian asked in disbelief. “Why you?”
“How the devil did you convince her to come with you to England?”
“Why did they approach you in the first place?”
Max answered Julian’s insistent question first. “They needed someone with enough scientific knowledge to make sense of her secrets, someone who could handle a pistol, someone fluent enough in French to pass as a native.” Max took a long swallow of the dark port, feeling it heat its way down his raw throat. “I wasn’t their first choice, but the others turned them down.”
He expected the next l
ogical question: why he had accepted. But turning toward them, he found understanding instead.
“And you couldn’t turn them down,” Saxon said, “because of—”
“Because of what happened to me,” Julian finished for him. “Bloody hell, Max, you took on a suicide mission because of me?” He looked stricken.
“Well at the time it seemed…” Max paused and choked out a dry laugh, remembering exactly how naïve he had been. “Like it would be a grand, bold adventure full of honor. A chance to save lives, to save England. And a chance to…” He thought for a moment, glancing down at his scuffed boots, admitting the truth to himself even as he admitted it to them. “To see if I had the kind of traits I had always admired in my older brothers,” he finished softly, raising his head to look at them in turn. “Daring and strength and bravery.”
“Hell, Max,” Saxon whispered with a pained expression. “How could you question whether you were strong and brave after what you endured for ten years?”
“And smart is a damn sight more valuable than daring,” Julian said adamantly. “Bold adventure ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“I know,” Max said ruefully. “I know!”
Another round of laughter broke the tension, though it sounded different this time—quieter, deeper, and shared in an equal way it had never been before.
When it died down, Max continued. “As for how I convinced her to come to England, I told her that it’s the French military who are after us. And with England and France at war, this is the safest place we could be. Beyond their reach. I told her I have friends here from before the war who might help us.” He saluted them with his glass. “So, my friends, here I am.”
“However, if she gets a look at either one of us, she’ll no doubt notice the family resemblance,” Julian said.
“Exactly.”
“And meanwhile you have a veritable firing squad of people looking to put a bullet in you.” Saxon cut to the quick of the matter, ticking off the opposition on his fingers. “The French. The English turncoat who’s working for the French. One of the two men in charge of the British intelligence ministry, who also happens to be a traitor. And Mademoiselle LeBon’s brother.”
“I think it’s my charm and good looks that have made me so popular.”
“Ahem,” Julian said dryly. “I’ll handle the jokes here, if you please.”
“Sorry.” Max carried the bottle of port back to the table and sat down. “I didn’t want to involve you in this, Saxon. God knows, you already spent enough years of your life trying to save my neck—”
“You’ve got my help, Max. Whatever you need. You don’t even have to ask for it.”
“Mine, too,” Julian said firmly. “If there’s anything I can do to prevent what happened to the Rising Star from happening again, I’ll go to hell and back again to do it.”
Max looked at Saxon and found him just as startled by the sudden fierceness in Julian’s voice. But before either of them could pursue it, the surge of vehemence had been replaced by cool reason.
“The French and the two English traitors obviously know who you are,” Julian said, “but they don’t know where you are. That gives us an advantage.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Max said. “They might still be searching on the Continent at the moment, but sooner or later they’ll figure out I’ve made it back to England. I can’t risk going home.”
“No,” Saxon agreed, frowning in thought. “If they’re not lying in wait for you in Grosvenor Square yet, they will be soon. We can’t let them know that you’ve contacted us, or that anything’s amiss. In fact,” he said reluctantly, “I don’t think we should tell the women about this at all.”
“I agree,” Julian said. “As far as Mother and Ashiana know, Max, you’re still on your Grand Tour. We’d better keep it at that for now. If we tell them, they’d want to help in some way—never mind the danger.”
Max nodded. “I don’t think the family is in danger as long as I stay away. If the French manage to follow me into England, they won’t do anything that might attract attention. And the British intelligence ministry is adamant about keeping their existence secret. They’re not about to put notices in the newspapers or stage a public manhunt or make threats against a duke’s family.” His fingers tightened around the glass. “But all of them want Marie. Badly.”
“And you don’t want to give her up. To anyone.”
Saxon’s soft comment took Max by surprise. Were all his thoughts and feelings written on his face? “I didn’t say that. She’s not…I don’t—”
“Love her?” Saxon interrupted gently. “Max, it’s in your voice every time you say her name.”
Julian muttered a startled oath. “The devil it is, Sax. I heard every word he said and I didn’t hear a thing.”
Saxon didn’t argue about it; he just held Max’s gaze.
With empathy in his eyes.
Max felt a burning in his throat that had nothing to do with the liquor. He looked away, stared down at his hand clenched around the glass.
It was true. He had fallen into a trap the past fortnight, allowed himself to believe his own lies: that he and Marie would always be together, that he could keep her safe and keep her with him.
That love would be enough. Enough to give them a chance.
But the truth was that he had dug himself into a hole so deep he could never get out. It was simply a matter of time before the weight of his own lies collapsed and crushed him. Before her memory returned and reality intruded and destroyed everything they shared.
“I think the reason you want help,” Saxon continued quietly, “isn’t only because your life is in danger…it’s because you’re in danger of losing your lady scientist.”
“Wait a minute,” Julian exclaimed. “Max, you fell in love with the woman responsible for blowing up my ship?”
“She isn’t what you think,” Max said hotly. “She was forced into creating the chemical compound. I’m sure of it. She isn’t the one responsible for what happened to you. Her brother was the one who hatched the scheme with the French navy. Marie was just an innocent pawn. He was using her.”
“But that doesn’t matter,” Julian replied tightly. “Pawn or not, she’s the only one who knows this chemical formula. You have to turn her over to the Crown, Max.”
“It doesn’t make any sense to turn her over! She doesn’t remember the damned formula.” Max thrust himself out of his chair and stalked over to a small card table beside the grate. Picking up a handful of ivory whist counters, he threw them with a snap of his arm, scattering them across the table and onto the floor. “That’s what her memory is like! Bits and pieces. All disconnected. Even if some pieces can be salvaged, some might never come back.”
“And part of you has been hoping her memory will never come back,” Saxon said.
Max clenched his fists. “Yes. I have. Wouldn’t it be better that way?” He turned to face them. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about this—if the French had any of the chemical left, why would they go to so much trouble to get their hands on Marie? They obviously don’t have the compound. So France doesn’t have the weapon. And England doesn’t have the weapon. I can live with that. A lot of people might live because of that.” He realized his voice had become too loud and tried to calm down. “Wouldn’t it be better if her memory never came back?”
“Yes,” Julian said emphatically.
“Better for the sake of peace?” Saxon asked quietly. “Or better for you?”
Max had been wrestling with that question for two weeks. “Both.”
Saxon’s keen gaze remained focused on him. “And what are the chances that you might be right? You said she didn’t respond to anything you tried, even the drug—is there a chance her memory might be permanently lost?”
Max raked a hand through his hair and turned away, afraid he already knew the answer. “I’m not sure.”
His brothers remained silent, as if aware he wasn’t telling the compl
ete truth, willing to wait for the rest.
He moved toward the hearth and braced his arms against the mantel. He had to force the words out. “She’s been…showing signs of…improvement.” A whist counter crunched beneath his boot. He lifted his heel, but the delicate piece of ivory was already ground to dust. “The comprehension problem that was giving her trouble has almost disappeared,” he admitted. “I noticed it even before she did. While we were in the south of France. She was able to understand what people said to her without asking them to slow down. Then on the ship on the way over, she understood conversations around her. Even conversations in English—”
“She speaks English?” Julian asked.
“And German, too. She’s…” Max couldn’t help a bittersweet smile of admiration. “She’s a highly intelligent and accomplished woman. And caring and generous and sweet…” He forced his thoughts back to the question at hand. “She also used to get headaches, terrible headaches, but she hasn’t had a single one since we left Paris. I don’t know if it all means anything, but I’ve started to think that it…that…” He couldn’t say the rest.
“That it’s only a matter of time,” Saxon said.
Max nodded, feeling numb.
“Gentlemen,” Julian said slowly, “a rather disturbing thought just occurred to me and I think it bears discussion. Regardless of whether this mademoiselle has amnesia or not, the Crown is not going to take kindly to Max disappearing with so valuable an enemy prisoner.”
Max kept staring down at the crushed whist counter.
Silence gripped the room until Saxon voiced the word all three of them were thinking.
“Treason,” he said tightly. “Max, they could charge you with treason for what you’re doing. The British intelligence ministry wouldn’t even have to reveal its secret existence—they could simply have the military draw up the charges.”
A Scoundrels Kiss Page 23