by Megan Derr
He had expected ranting and raving, perhaps the dramatic throwing of something. He'd hardly blame the man for such a reaction. Instead Moore looked unsurprised, as though he were finally hearing the bad news for which he had long been waiting. "I'm glad she is well. Thank you for letting me know, my lord."
It was, near as Max could recall, the first time Moore had bothered to address him properly. "Are—are you well, sir?"
"I am fine," Moore replied. "Disappointed, of course, but what am I to do? Throw a fit and drag her back? If she has chosen to marry elsewhere, that is her choice. I simply wish she had told me, instead of leaving me to run frantically about like an imbecile."
Max set his fork down again, quietly mourning the lovely eggs that would grow cold and unpleasant—but some things were more important than eggs. "The very least I can do is show you the note." Standing, he waited until Moore joined him before heading across the hall to his study—such as it was, with most everything still in crates, and he mostly used the study for receiving and going through the post, anyway. All his real work was done in the lab.
Going to his desk, he opened the top drawer on the right side and pulled out the note, handing it over.
Moore read it and after a moment handed it back, mouth pinched and eyes decidedly downcast. "The ambassador's son—the one from Fermo. Lord Frances Ridley was the ambassador, the Duke of Hamilton Crossing. The son's name was … Gerard, yes. Lord Gerard Ridley. She struck up a friendship when we were introduced to them a few months ago. She is clever, but I had noticed the scent of her cigarettes had changed. I had assumed she became fond of the brand Lord Ridley favored after he gave her a few to enjoy. But now this and a couple of other things make much more sense. Your sister is brave."
"She's a reckless ninny," Max said, dropping the note back in the drawer before slamming it shut. "She said I would likely be able to figure it out; I am surprised you did."
"You and everyone else," Moore muttered, hurt flickering across his face before it was buried beneath a scowl.
Max narrowed his eyes but let the matter drop for the moment; it was too bloody early for arguments. "Well, as my sister has run off and I am her only remaining relative, minus a rather alarming aunt who by this point is likely running naked through some hillside, I will undertake to locate a new fiancée per the agreement in the marriage contract."
"What?" Moore's head jerked up, eyes widening. "How the devil would you locate me a new spouse? You know nothing about me—we have only barely met! And quite frankly, my lord, I've had all I can take from your sister. I see no reason to continue my association—"
"A contract is a contract, and I shall keep to it to the best of my ability," Max snapped, slapping a hand down on the desk for emphasis. "My sister has run off, there is nothing I can do about that, but I will select a new fiancée for you. It is the very least I can do, sir. As to hardly knowing you—well, that is nothing that you sitting down and telling me about yourself, and what you desire in a spouse, will not solve. Do stop being so petulant and dramatic, I promise you such behavior causes more problems than it solves."
"Someone should tell your sister that," Moore said sourly. "I've had enough of this rot. Good day to you, my lord." He turned sharply on his heel and strode off, and Max winced as the front door slammed hard enough to shake the house.
Well, that had gone both better and worse than anticipated. Max sighed and returned to the breakfast room, eating the cold eggs, mushrooms, and sausages patiently awaiting his return. When he was finished, he requested a pot of tea be brought to him in the study and returned there to work.
If Moore was not going to cooperate with him then he would have to find another method of gathering information. Pulling open another drawer in his desk, he pulled out the portfolio where he had already started collecting information to compile a list of fiancée candidates. It would have been useful if Moore had at least bothered to tell him if he preferred men or women, children or no children. Well, he would give Moore a few days and then call upon him—what a change that would be to their encounters.
Bother it, he was likely going to have to put his experiments on hold until the matter of Moore's marriage was settled. Ah, well, it was not as though his latest paper was going to be ready in time for submission. He would have to have another go at the Gorson Award next year.
Max finished his tea and stood, carrying the portfolio with him upstairs to get properly dressed for going out. He would visit his clubs, make discreet inquiries without arousing suspicions. Ideally, he could run a few other errands as well and return home in time to prepare for whatever parties he wound up agreeing to attend while he was out. They would be the best places to gather the information he required, as much as he loathed them and wished he could avoid the whole mess a little longer.
Speaking of social obligations and duties he preferred to avoid, he was going to need a secretary. One more aggravation. He would have to throw himself upon Barrington's mercy and convince him to locate one; if Max interviewed them, he would scare them all away.
In his room, he stripped down and washed up, then pulled on brown breeches, cream and brown clocked stockings, a cream shirt with a brown and gold waistcoat, and a dark amber coat. His neck cloth was not as well-knotted as he would like, but he was lucky if he could ever tie the damned things at all.
After stepping into his favorite pair of shoes, brown leather with gold buckles, he made certain his hair was respectable. Max chose amber studs for his ears that matched a cravat pin he finally dug out of the mess of jewelry he had collected only because his sister was never content to buy only for herself.
Finally ready to face society—or at least out of ways to delay the matter—he retrieved the portfolio from his bed, paused briefly to retrieve his coin purse and card case, and ventured downstairs to have the carriage brought round.
"Carriage is waiting sir," Hugh said from the foot of the stairs.
"If you keep being this good at your job, Hugh, Master Moore will be hard-pressed to match my bribes to keep you."
A smile briefly ticked up the corners of Hugh's mouth. "He is seldom home long enough to either require me or miss me, my lord. It is nice to have something to do."
"You will change your mind when I am able to resume the lab work, but I appreciate your assistance. Send for me should you require anything. I am going to the Starr Club, about town on a few errands, and then the Hocus Club before I return this evening. No need for supper, but I will need evening clothes unearthed from my trunks if you can find someone to do that."
"Of course, my lord," Hugh said, handing over his coat, hat, and gloves. "Have a good day."
"Thank you. The same to you and the rest of the staff." Outside, a cold wind was blowing and the skies promised something unpleasant—snow, possibly, but more likely sleet. Damn. "To the Starr Club, Willow, and have a care. I don't like the look of those clouds."
"Yes, my lord."
Settling into his seat, Max opened his portfolio again and pursed his lips. He had written out twenty profile sheets, modeled after those he had used to interview people pertinent to past experiments. He wondered if selecting marriage candidates would be more or less trying than arguing magic theory.
He worried his bottom lip as he tucked the profile sheets away and drew out blank sheets of paper meant for general notes, that brief moment from their conversation in the study replaying in his mind. Moore was definitely sensitive on the matter of his own intelligence, which was an insecurity not easily overcome in the presence of Mavin, as Max knew all too well.
The carriage came to a halt and the driver rapped on the window. A moment later, the door swung open and a man in the club's livery helped him out. "Welcome home, my lord."
"Thank you," Max replied as he climbed the stairs and slipped into the familiar, tidy comfort of the Star Club. Many thought his studies of magic theory were crazy science, but the Starr and Hocus clubs had always been places of welcome.
"Lord Max!"
Max looked up from handing off his coat, smiling at the woman who came striding down the hallway toward him. "Lady Bella, it's been a long time."
"Scoundrel!" She stopped just short of running into him and reached up to smack him playfully on the cheek. "Finally returned to us, then? About time, I say."
"I'm going to depart again if you don't leave off hitting me," Max replied, catching up her hand and squeezing it gently. She smiled and squeezed back, reached up to kiss his cheek. Max kissed hers in return. "So what have you been doing lately, hellion?" She offered her arm and he took it, walking with her down the hall to the sitting room they had always favored. "That shrieking bundle you were holding when I departed must be a larger shrieking bundle by now."
She gave a soft snort, flicking dark curls from her eyes with a slight jerk of her head. "He hardly shrieks anymore, I promise."
"I am far too acquainted with father and mother to believe that," Max retorted. "I am glad the child is doing well."
"Children," she corrected. "I had a daughter last year; that one still shrieks plenty. I firmly maintain they get it from their father. They are nearly as fair as him, too, but their hair and bone structure is entirely me." She settled in a dark blue armchair and requested tea from the footman that stood waiting patiently by the door. "You'll have to come and visit; we would love to have you."
"You just want me to tell you why my sister is missing."
She grinned. "The whole town is buzzing, darling. Lady Mavin scandalized everyone by proposing to Moore, of all people, and now she has vanished. Rumors were just beginning to spread that he had killed her, and now here you arrived much sooner than she had said you would return."
"What do you mean 'Moore of all people'?" Max asked. "What is wrong with him?"
Her smiled faded. "He's destitute, to begin with. The man has scarcely a penny to his name."
"My sister is not an idiot; she would not propose to a man she thought was only after her money." Honestly, Mavin probably wouldn't care; she would at least respect the honesty of the motive, and the estate had plenty of money, thanks to their grandmother's almost demonic talents with finance. Moore had not struck him as a fortune hunter, though. He had been genuinely worried about Mavin, and truly hurt the wedding had been canceled without even a chance to discuss the matter.
"He's the son of Reginald Moore," Bella hissed.
Ah, now he was beginning to see what all the fervor was about. "Reginald Moore is dead, and I seem to recall most of his family died with him. Moore was a child at the time, surely, as young as he must be." He was a few years younger than Max, if looks were a reliable gauge—which, not always, but he thought they were in Moore's case. "My sister never spoke a word of it, only that he was charming and intelligent and capable and she thought they would get on well. I trust my sister implicitly. If she stood by him then I stand by him as well."
"Just have a care, Max. You are not as brash as your sister—"
"I will be fine. My sister is a far better judge of character than me."
She cast him a thoughtful look. "You have not expressed any concern as to Lady Mavin, therefore you must know where she is. Tell me!"
"I am not at liberty to say, and to be honest, I have no idea." He was relieved when the servant returned with the tea cart. "Tell me all that I have missed since I've been gone, and what social affairs are worth attending to settle back into the rhythm of it all."
Her eyes gleamed as she chose her subjects, and Max spent the next three hours relearning a world he'd not seen for three years, from Bella and several other acquaintances in the club. He even managed the dubious victory of securing three invitations for fetes that evening, and promises that many more would be sent to him throughout the week.
When he finally left the club, he was sorely tempted to return home and hide in his bed the rest of the day. Unfortunately, there was work to do yet and putting it off would only make him more miserable. "Bookshop, Willow, if you please."
"Yes, my lord," Willow replied, and the carriage was moving nearly before Max was settled. He steadied his balance, sighing softly, then adjusted his glasses and opened his portfolio again. He made further notes—cautious notes, as Bella had relayed more gossip and supposition than useful facts. Money a concern/preference? Someone who will not be troubled by family history.
Max frowned over the last comment, tucking the pencil away and closing the portfolio.
Kelcey Moore—the boy left behind in school when the rest of his family had tried to assassinate the royal family. After failing spectacularly they had attempted to flee, and were either captured or killed at sea. Those captured were later tried for treason and executed. Moore would have only been a child, but was blamed for the poor decisions of his parents and relatives anyway. As though anyone could talk. Every family had a bit of serious scandal in its past—look at his own, two duchesses and five other ancestors burned as witches just three generations back. If he had been born just a generation or two sooner, he would never have been permitted to pursue his course of study. As it was, he was only permitted to pursue it because most everyone believed him crazy and the government had done its best to destroy or discredit the more alarming—magical—aspects of the Goblin Wars.
Still, attempted assassination of royalty was not the sort of scandal easily brushed aside. Moore was likely tolerated only because he had been not even ten years of age when his family attempted to kill the crown prince.
No wonder his sister had first approached and befriended him. Max smiled briefly, thinking of Mavin, especially their school days when she had reigned over campus with her friends; everyone had called them the Wildlings. Given her penchant for chaos, he was surprised only that it had taken her as long as it had to run off with a foreign noble.
He wondered how much longer he had until royal messengers came thundering into his home to drag him from bed and to the queen's parlor. Hopefully the problem would come later rather than sooner, and in the meantime he had more than enough to keep himself occupied.
The carriage came to a halt, and Willow rapped on the roof shortly before the door swung open. Climbing out, Max looked up at the bookshop he had not seen for more than three years. It did not appear to have changed by so much as a chip of paint; the lettering on the shop window was still faded, the building's stones still looked as though they would crumble at any moment, and the awning over the door was so worn he could not tell what color it had once been. The color had been long gone even in his childhood.
"Take a break, Willow. Be back in a couple of hours. If I leave sooner than that, you can catch up to me at the Hocus Club."
"Yes, my lord. Thank you."
Max stepped inside, enjoying the familiar scents of leather, paper, wood, and polish. A few people milled about, but mostly the shop was deserted.
"Bless my heart!" said a man at the counter, holding a hand to his chest. "Lord Max, as I live and breathe."
Max smiled and nodded. "Hello, Robert. Good to see you again after so long. I see nothing has changed."
"As though I'd ever let anyone change this old place," Robert said, coming from behind the counter to give him a quick embrace. "How are you, Lord Max? When did you return?"
"Yesterday, and I have been running to keep up ever since. How have you been?"
Robert shrugged. "Same as ever. Hired an apprentice, but she's off today. Go ahead and have a look about. I've got some books in the back I've been setting aside just for you." He patted Max's arms, then turned and bustled off.
Smiling, Max wandered through the shop, nodding politely to the few others around but not inviting conversation. He browsed the books, but the ones that most interested him were kept upstairs, and so he headed that way—
And collided neatly with someone coming down them. "Beg pardon, I did not hear or see you." He looked up, then gave a soft huff and shake of his head. "I should have known."
Moore scowled. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It mean
s you move quieter than a ghost," Max said, smoothing a hand over his clothes, twitching his cuffs back into place. "Would it trouble you to make noise when you walk like everyone else?"
"One learns to be quiet when a single noise might get one killed," Moore snapped—then startled Max by grabbing him up, turning, and depositing him neatly on the second floor landing. "Good day to you, my lord."
Max shot out a hand and grabbed his shoulder. "No, please. I would like to speak with you. I apologize for my words; no insult was intended."
Moore shrugged the hand off but didn't walk away, though he did not leave the stairs to join Max on the second floor either. He stared at Max, his brow furrowed, mouth pinched and turned down. "Why would you need to speak with me? Our business is concluded, my lord. You've no further need to trouble yourself with me."
"My sister has visited a grievous wrong upon you, and I aim to correct matters as best I can. I will uphold the contract and the runaway clause." Something passed over Moore's face, there and gone too quickly for Max to put a name to it, but it stirred a strange urge to ensure it never appeared again. He firmly shook off the strange thought. "If you've some time to spare, I would like to speak with you."
"I don't," Moore said. "I told you I don't give a bloody damn about that stupid clause. I don't know why it was put there, or how I missed it. I told her it was unnecessary—and hardly fair, for I have no relatives who could have done the same should something have happened to me. Good day to you, my lord." He turned away again and headed down the stairs.
Max resisted the urge to stamp his foot. "Stop being such a bloody arse! Do not make me draw my pistol again, because I told you what would happen if I did so."
Moore whipped around and stormed back up the stairs—Max could hear his footsteps, and he realized abruptly just how bad a thing that was—and shoved into Max's space, forcing him back several paces. "I told you I did not want your damned help."
"You said you'd 'had enough of this rot,' which is not the same—"
"It's close enough," Moore interrupted. "I am perfectly capable of finding my own spouse—"