by Anne Gracie
He found her perplexing. Annoying. Frustrating.
And damnably arousing, curse her.
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 t
heft, 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.”