by Anne Gracie
Chapter Seven
“Angry people are not always wise.”
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
“So that’s Lady Beatrice’s dear Max,” Jane said as the girls went downstairs. “I’d imagined someone quite different, from the way she talked about him. He’s frightfully grim, isn’t he? And quite rough-looking.”
“And he don’t like us being here, not one little bit, nor yet that Lady Bea called us her nieces,” Daisy said. She glanced at Abby. “He’s going to be trouble, Abby.”
“Oh, I think he was just worried about his aunt,” Jane said.
Abby nodded. The way he’d burst into the house was as if he were coming to save his aunt from being murdered. He’d glared at her with unconcealed hostility ever since. Blaming Abby for his aunt’s condition.
A bit late for that. He’d stayed away how many years, and now he came marching in, throwing black looks and wordless threats around?
Damaris said, “He’s very attractive, don’t you think, Abby?”
“Attractive?” Jane laughed. “How can you say that? Did you see that long hair, and he hadn’t even bothered to shave. And apart from being amazingly grim, he’s quite old!”
“Old?” Abby turned to Jane. “Don’t be ridiculous! He’s barely thirty.”
Jane shrugged. “Thirty seems old to me.”
Abby supposed thirty might seem old to a girl not yet eighteen. Whereas to a woman of twenty-four . . . And she didn’t mind the long hair and the rough, masculine jaw at all. . . . And she did appreciate a man with broad shoulders and long, strong thighs. . . .
Not that she thought of Max Davenham in that way.
“He couldn’t take his eyes off Abby,” Damaris said.
“Only because he wanted to murder me,” Abby said dryly. That moment on the stairs when the faint humor in his eyes had faded and cold hostility took its place still had the power to send a shiver down her back. What had she said? That she spoke for Lady Beatrice? Was that what had infuriated him?
Jane gave a shocked laugh. “You must be mistaken, Abby. Why on earth would he wish you harm?”
“I don’t know,” said Abby. “But from the way he burst in today I suspect he thought we meant ill by his aunt. That she was in danger from us.” He’d conducted himself like a stiffly growling watchdog.
“Well, he must know now that that’s nonsense. So perhaps the next time we see him he’ll be positively charming, like the ‘my dearest Max’ Lady Beatrice talks of,” Jane said.
“Perhaps,” Abby said. But she wouldn’t bet on it.
* * *
“Who the devil are they?” Max said when the door was finally shut.
“I told you, my nieces.”
“Nonsense, you don’t have any nieces. Who are they really?”
She shrugged in a manner he recognized of old. “If I say they’re my nieces, they are.”
“You forget who you’re talking to, Aunt Bea. I’ll take an oath those girls aren’t even related to one another, let alone you.”
She gave him a warm smile. “Dear boy, so lovely to have you home again. Now, tell me what you’ve been up to. What’s brought you back to England after all this time? Going to settle down with a nice gel and make me a great-aunt, are you?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
She smacked his hand. “Don’t be dreary, Max. I’ve told you they’re my nieces and that’s all you need to know. They’re here as my guests.”
“Guests don’t take money from their hostess.”
She made a sound of annoyance. “The wretched Perkins boy told you that, I suppose.”
“It’s his job to keep me informed.”
She snorted. “He’s a lazy little pipsqueak.”
“I know. I’ve sacked him.” He put up his hand to halt the objections that came spilling out. “I know, I know; I’ve overreached myself again.”
She pulled a face. “Much you care about that.”
He smiled. “Quite right. I didn’t mind leaving you in the hands of Perkins senior, but his son is quite another matter. I have removed the account books and handed them to my own man, Bartlett. He, I know, will take excellent care of you.”
“Well, make sure he pays Abby and her sisters a handsome allowance.”
He was silent for a moment. “Is she blackmailing you?” He couldn’t imagine what his aunt could possibly have done that could allow for blackmail, but everyone had secrets.
His aunt gave a spurt of laughter. “Don’t be silly; of course she’s not!”
“They why would you pay her?”
“Because she hasn’t a penny—none of them have.”
“That’s no reason. London is full of beggars, but you don’t take them in.”
“You have no idea what they’ve done for me, Max, no idea. The little they accept from me is nothing to what I owe them. Oh, stop looking at me like that! I haven’t entered my dotage, if that’s what you’re thinking. But what’s between Abby and her sisters and me is our business, not yours.”
“They’re not who they purport to be, Aunt Bea.”
“I know that, but the gels are entitled to their secrets. I know who they are, and if I’m not worried, you have no cause to be concerned.”
He didn’t respond. He just looked at her and waited. And waited. Not taking his eyes off her. It was a trick he’d learned at school and honed abroad, and it rarely failed. Under his cool, unwavering regard, eventually most people talked.
She made an exasperated sound. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Well—I didn’t want to tell you this, for it’s demmed embarrassin’, but I let a pack of worthless, lazy servants get the better of me.” She waved her hand irritably. “You don’t need to know the details, but it was Miss Abby and her sisters who helped me out of that situation—and no, don’t look at me like that, for I won’t explain the depths I had sunk to, but suffice it to say—and it’s no exaggeration—those girls saved me, saved my life. And if it pleases me to make them a small allowance—well, as a matter of fact, it would please me a great deal more if she would accept a larger one, but she won’t, and she’s nearly as stubborn as you, Max, so don’t think I haven’t tried.”
What Max thought was that Miss Chance was even more cunning than he’d imagined. Oh, he could just imagine her prettily objecting to an allowance, all the while fanning the flames of his aunt’s gratitude, but he could see there was no point trying to convince Aunt Bea.
He’d speak with the woman himself. He was well able to deal with the likes of Miss Abigail Chance.
“She claimed she spoke for you, dammit. In my whole lifetime nobody—not even my uncle, God rest his soul—has ever spoken for you.” It flayed him to see the forceful Tartar aunt he remembered having become this . . . this helpless, grateful victim.
She shrugged. “I’ve been ill, Max. Things change when you’ve been ill. It gives you a new perspective on life.”
“I can see you’ve been unwell, Aunt Bea. Are you quite recovered now?” He gently squeezed her thin little hands. Dammit, she was so frail. Guilt lashed at him.
“Better than I was, certainly. And the sickness that laid me low has passed, according to the doctor. But I can’t walk anymore, Max.”
“What?” His gaze shot to the shape of her legs under the coverlet. “What do you mean, you can’t walk? Did you have an accident? Break a—”
“No, no, nothing like that. It’s just that I’ve been sick and in bed for so long—now, don’t look like that, dear boy; it’s not your fault. I’m slowly regaining my strength, and the girls are helping me. They make me exercise several times a day, following the doctor’s instructions to the letter, curse them—it’s not at all amusing. And William carries me wherever I need to go.”
Suddenly the reason for the powerful, thuggish-looking footman became less sinister.
Max said slowly, “Why didn’t you let me know?”
She gave him a puzzled look. “That I’d been ill? But I did.”
H
e shook his head. “I haven’t had a letter from you in nearly a year—not directly from you, only the letters your maid has written for you since you broke your wrist. All formal and polite nothings. And not one mentioned the kind of illness that would keep you in your bed.”
She gave him a puzzled look. “I never broke my wrist, or hurt it in any way. And I never dictated any letters to you. I wrote ’em all myself.” She snorted. “Catch me letting a maidservant read my private correspondence?”
“Are you saying you wrote me letters yourself? And they never got mailed?”
She made a helpless gesture. “I don’t know what happened, but I haven’t had a letter from you in ages either. Of course I know ships go down and mail doesn’t always arrive. . . .”
“I wrote to you every month, the same as I did at school.” It was the habit of a lifetime. He said thoughtfully, “So somebody has been misappropriating our letters. I should have realized sooner. Yours didn’t sound like you, but it took me a while before I really started to worry. It wasn’t until I received this letter that I seriously got the wind up that something was wrong.” He pulled the water-stained letter from his pocket and showed it to his aunt.
Using her lorgnette she examined the letter closely. “Why, that’s my old friend Clara Beddington’s writing. I haven’t seen her for years. She always did love purple ink. A dear creature, but with the most appalling taste. Fancy her writing to you.” She groped for her lorgnette and tilted the letter to the light, squinting. “I can’t make it out. What does it say?”
He was about to explain that the letter said she’d been taken advantage of—and he knew by whom, now—but he changed his mind. His aunt was oddly defensive about these girls. No need to ruffle her feathers further. He’d get to the bottom of the matter—and fix it—without upsetting or involving her.
Dammit, she couldn’t walk. He should have come home much sooner. He’d put it off because of . . . No point dwelling on that.
But he’d put his own freedom before his aunt’s welfare, and he wouldn’t forgive himself until he’d fixed it.
He took the letter back and tucked it in his pocket. “The details aren’t important. As you saw, much of the writing was washed away when I got it, but there was enough in it to make me worried about you. And so I came.”
“Well, I’m delighted to have you home again, dear boy.” She patted his hand. “Luckily dear Abby was there before you and she sorted everything out.”
Max would just bet she did. Nothing easier than to take over the home of a sick, lonely, bedridden old lady.
“So how did you say you met her?” he asked casually.
“I didn’t.” His aunt smiled. “She just flew in at the window one night, like a good fairy.” Her eyes twinkled. He wasn’t going to get any sense out of her, he could see.
“Oh, don’t look so grim, dear boy.” She laughed and patted his hand. “Be a good nephew and don’t make a fuss. We all have our little secrets, and there’s nothing there for you to be concerned about. Just accept it from me that Abby and her sisters are dear, good-hearted girls and leave it at that.”
He didn’t like it, but he knew there was no point arguing. He’d find out about Miss Abby and her sisters his own way. In the meantime: “I’ll talk to your doctor—”
She waved a hand—a ringless hand, he noted grimly. “No need, dear Abby handles all that.”
“Nevertheless, as your only blood relation, and the head of your family—”
His aunt laughed. “Dragging out the head-of-the-family card so soon, dear boy? It never worked for your grandfather or your uncle, so I can’t imagine why you think it will work for you. But go ahead, if it makes you feel better.”
“I’ll call on Bentinck today.” Bentinck was his aunt’s usual physician, with a practice made up of half the ton.
She snorted. “That old woman. Abby found me a much better man. Shows more sense than any doctor I’ve ever met. Prescribed me excitement; can you imagine?”
Max could. The man was obviously a quack. He’d get the fellow’s address from that butler fellow. There was no need to involve dear Abby.
“And what are your plans, dear boy? Is this a flying visit? Are you heading off to sail the seven seas again, now that you’ve seen for yourself I’m in good hands, or have you decided to settle down at last?”
“I’m back for good,” he told her. He might make an occasional voyage, but it would no longer be the main focus of his life. And she was not in good hands. Far from it.
She cocked her head. “Marriage?”
“Yes.”
She sat up, her eyes sparkling. “We’ll give a ball. It will give you a chance to become acquainted with all the young, eligible gels and—”
“No need,” Max cut her off. “You know who I’m going to marry.”
His aunt made a disgusted noise. “Oh, you’re not still on about that Parsley gel!”
“Parsloe. Miss Henrietta Parsloe, as you very well know.”
“A cit’s daughter. I thought you would have grown out of that nonsense.”
“Aunt Bea, you know very well I gave my word.”
“Yes, but it was nine years ago! Surely it doesn’t count? You were just a boy of eighteen, not even old enough to be legally held to your word.”
“Legality has nothing to do with it. My word is my bond,” he reminded her gently. “And I have no intention of breaking it.”
She sat back against her pillows with a huff of irritation. “Have you even seen the gel in the last nine years?”
“No.”
“Written to her? Exchanged letters?”
“Occasionally.”
“How do you even know she’s waited for you? Nine years is a long time for a young gel to wait.”
“She’ll have waited.”
She sniffed. “She wants the title.”
“You don’t think I’m worth waiting for?” Max asked, unruffled. He knew very well what his aunt thought.
She gave him a severe look. “Not for nine years. It’s not reasonable. And if you’d loved the gel, she wouldn’t have had to wait.” She wagged a finger at him. “If I’d loved a man I wouldn’t have let him spend nine years gadding about the globe.”
Max didn’t doubt it. His situation, however, was different. “I wasn’t gadding,” he pointed out. “I was repairing the family fortunes.”
She flapped an impatient hand. “The question is, do you love this gel? Does she love you? If you haven’t seen her for nine years you can’t possibly know if you still want to marry her.”
Want had nothing to do with it. “Love is not the only basis for marriage.”
“You mean it’s for money?” she demanded. “I thought you’d repaired the family fortune.”
“I have.”
“Then if it’s not love or money, what other reason is there to marry a cit’s daughter?”
“I gave my word.” Max stood up. “Now, I have business to attend to, but we’ll talk more later.” He kissed his aunt on the cheek and promised to look in on her again before dinner. He left her room in a thoughtful frame of mind.
There was more here to be done than he’d expected. He made a swift examination of the other rooms on his aunt’s floor and found faded wallpaper, worn and shabby carpets, cracks in the plaster and some evidence of rising damp in one corner. Not to mention the faded squares, like the ghosts of missing paintings.
Of course, the really valuable paintings had been sold nine years before; still, he was sure the house had not been quite so denuded.
He hadn’t noticed it before. When he’d first arrived, he’d been concentrating on getting to his aunt, and while he was in her bedroom there was no sign of the shabby, run-down state of the rest of the house.
The state of the place had been disguised, he realized, with beeswax polish and flowers and foliage arrangements scattered about, and bright fabrics pinned to the wall in lieu of paintings.
The house needed serious work. It galled him to th
ink of his aunt living here, in what almost amounted to squalor. He should have insisted on an upkeep clause, he realized. Had he been here, he would have— No, no point in regretting the past. Max had long ago learned the futility of that. All regrets did was drain you of energy to make the future.
Ah, well, the responsibility for the house wouldn’t be his for much longer. His aunt was all he cared about, and now that he was home again, it was time for a change—past time. The neighborhood was in a state of flux.
In the sixteenth century, when his ancestor had built Davenham House, the Strand was a fashionable address, filled with palaces and mansions of the wealthy. But several centuries later, most of those old palaces had been demolished to make way for new buildings, and those that were still standing had deteriorated badly, some into slums.
The process had started before he’d left, but when he’d arrived today he’d seen very few well-dressed people or smart carriages, and quite a lot of riffraff.
Aunt Bea’s bedchamber was a bright, comfortable, self-contained world created especially for a bedridden woman. When he’d first clapped eyes on her she’d reminded him of an Indian maharani, richly dressed, sitting against a pile of sumptuous cushions, surrounded by exotic fabrics and pretty young attendants, in a room filled with flowers and who knew what else. Cats.
Miss Chance’s work, he had no doubt, designed to keep his bedridden aunt comfortable and compliant. But this was no place for Aunt Bea, not anymore.
Most of the ton had long ago shifted their town residences to Mayfair and places like that. He’d wanted to move Aunt Bea after his uncle died, back when he was eighteen and preparing to leave England. But once he’d discovered the state in which his uncle had left things, there was no question of Aunt Bea moving. It had been all Max could do to ensure she had a roof over her head and an allowance to keep her in the style to which she was accustomed.
The price of that arrangement still had to be paid.
Max had never let his aunt know about the mess his uncle had left behind, the crippling debts. He’d thought he was doing the right thing, leaving her in the home she’d lived in all her married life.