“She needn’t continue to be the subject of rumor and scandal either,” Lucien countered.
“Her mother is famous. She will always be the subject of rumors. Neither of us can change that. At least let her make use of what advantages she gains from it.”
“What advantage?”
“Freedom.”
Lucien shook his head. “She’s not you, Max.”
“Not in the least. I could acquire the good opinion of the ton, if I cared for it. I don’t.”
“Anna can—”
“No, she can’t,” he bit off. “Damn it, man, you know she can’t. And you’ll not offer false promises or bully her into begging for something she can’t have. I’ll not allow it.”
Lucien reared back in his seat. “You’ll not allow it?”
“Correct.” He’d not had to take a stand against Lucien on anything in the past, and never dreamt he’d have to go against him on a matter involving family, but he’d be damned before he let Max send Anna off to court the good opinions of people who would as soon skewer her as look at her. “Let Anna decide her own path. We shouldn’t even be having this discussion without her.”
“Shouldn’t be having . . . ?” The anger in Lucien’s face disappeared as he trailed off and sat down slowly. “Do you care for her, Max?”
What sort of question was that? “Why else would I be spending time with the woman?”
“To offer her a sense of the familiar at Caldwell Manor because I asked it of you.” Lucien tapped his finger against the arm of his chair, his gaze speculative. “How much time, exactly, have you been spending in Anna’s company, how much do you care for her, and why haven’t you informed me of either answer before now?”
Nearing the end of his patience, Max spoke before thinking. “I’ve not counted the minutes, none of your damn business. and—because it is none of your damn business.”
“I am her brother.”
Max opened his mouth, shut it, and took a calming breath. Without a doubt, it was Lucien’s business, but he wasn’t going to hand the man that victory outright. “Are you looking for me to seek permission to court her? Very well, may I court your sister?”
“No.”
“What? Why the devil not?”
“Permission to court my sister for your mistress? Are you mad?”
Insult fled as quickly as it had arrived. “Ah, no, not for my mistress. My wife.”
Lucien digested that information in the time it took him to blink once. “Permission granted.”
It took Max longer to digest Lucien’s response. “I . . . Well. That was a very sudden change of heart.”
“My oldest friend wants to make my sister a viscountess. I’d be a fool to object. You’ve given due consideration to the ramifications of such a choice, I assume?”
“The few that interest me.”
“Fair enough. Tell me how I can be of assistance.”
“All right,” Max said slowly. Nothing about this meeting had gone the way he’d expected. “Allow me to court Anna my way.”
Lucien swore under his breath and dragged a hand through his hair before leveling a hard stare at Max. “Do you realize what you’re asking of me?”
“I am asking you to trust me.” Suddenly uncomfortable, he began to pick at a loose thread on the seat of his chair. “You know I’d never . . . You know what this family means to me.”
“I do.” Lucien, looking equally ill at ease, nodded and busied his hands and gaze with an ink blotter on the desk. “Very well, proceed as you see fit.” He stopped fiddling and jabbed a finger at Max. “But know this, one word of complaint from her and I won’t hesitate to call you out.”
Max’s shoulders relaxed at the exceedingly masculine and therefore infinitely more comfortable threat of violence.
“You loathe the practice of dueling.”
Lucien shrugged. “I’ve never wanted to shoot anyone before.”
“Unbearable as a brother, just as I said.”
“Say whatever the devil you like, just remember who’s the better shot.”
Chapter 27
Max kept Lucien’s warning in mind as he set out to woo Anna over the next few days. He didn’t believe for a moment that Lucien would call him out for a duel under any circumstances. But neither Lucien or Gideon would hesitate to beat him to a bloody pulp and then ban him from Caldwell Manor. Max could take a beating well enough (and damned if holding Anna in his arms wasn’t worth the risk) but banishment was not a punishment he could so easily dismiss.
He’d lose his chance to court Anna altogether. And he’d lose Lucien, Gideon, Mrs. Webster, and . . . Hell, he’d lose everyone and everything that meant anything to him.
And so he was careful. Far more careful than he’d been the night of the picnic. He was forced to take his pleasures in experiencing the small things—a touch of her hand, the meeting of knees as they shared a bench, the brush of arms as they passed by in the hall. And he discovered that, when one paid attention to them, there was a great deal of pleasure to be found in those little touches.
Not every moment that passed between them was innocent, of course. Max wasn’t above stealing a kiss or two (or ten) on their walks, or in the shadowed recess of a hallway—just a brief meeting of lips, an excuse to cup her face in his hands and torment himself with the taste of her.
Lucien wouldn’t approve, but neither was he likely to take too much offense. And if he did, well, Max figured he could always remind Lucien of his courtship with Lilly. No man cared to be a hypocrite.
Max smiled as he urged his horse into a gallop along the road from Codridgeton to Caldwell. All in all, things were coming along brilliantly. With a little more time and patience, he could win over Anna and they—
Max never saw what knocked him out of the saddle. There was a blur of movement in the trees along the road and something hard slammed into his side. The force knocked him off balance just as his mount veered to one side, and the next thing Max knew, the hard road was rushing up to meet him.
The force of impact knocked the air from his lungs, but with some luck and quick reflexes, he managed to protect his head and roll when he hit the ground, avoiding the sort of abrupt collision that could easily break bones.
Still, it was jarring to be knocked bodily from a moving horse. Even as he pushed himself to his knees, the world spun around him in a long, nauseating circle.
A dark form rushed at him from the side, with a heavy boot aimed at his midsection. Max threw himself out of the way at the last possible second, then scrambled to his feet just in time to take a fist to the jaw from a second assailant. He stumbled back, instinctively throwing a forearm block to escape the next blow, and took quick stock of what he was up against. There were two men, and although both were masked they were easy enough to recognize.
Ox and Jones. Bloody hell.
Max dodged a lumbering charge from Ox and managed to jam an elbow into the man’s lower back as he stumbled past, then spun and ducked as Jones swung at his head. Lashing out with his own fist, he was rewarded when knuckles connected with nose, and Jones howled in pain. He stepped forward to follow up with another attack, only to be knocked sideways by a glancing blow from one of Ox’s ham-sized fists, a gentle reminder that he would have to fight this battle on two fronts.
He did his best to cover both, landing blow after blow, but he took almost as many hits in return. When his left eye began to swell shut from an unfortunate collision with Ox’s right elbow, Max realized he needed to bring the fight to a close or lose any hope of victory. He dodged a swipe of Jones’s new blade and turned quickly, catching the man off balance so a swift kick sent him sprawling. The knife clattered across the rocky road into the thick grass and Jones scrambled after it, allowing Max to finally give Ox his full attention.
He beckoned the big man forward in a taunting gesture and was not surprised when his opponent lowered his head for another bull rush. Slow learner, Mr. Ox. But this time, instead of just dancing out of the w
ay, Max ducked under the massive arms that reached for his throat and got a proper hold on one. He gave that arm a firm twist as Ox’s own weight and momentum carried him forward to the ground. There was a sharp snap and a bellow of pain.
“My arm. Rutting bastard broke my arm!”
Abandoning the search for his knife, Jones rushed forward and grabbed Ox’s other arm to drag him backward. “Shut up, man.”
It was tempting to taunt them, to let them know he’d recognized them before Ox had opened his mouth. But it was smarter to say nothing.
Particularly as the injury to Ox seemed to have put the men off any further violence. They backed away, Ox cradling his arm, then turned around and bolted into the trees and, no doubt, their waiting horses.
Max stood where he was for a long time after they left, willing his wavering vision to steady. As the intensity of the moment passed, so did the worst of his dizziness, and at last, he was able to walk the distance down the road to collect his horse and pull himself up into the saddle.
The ride home would always remain something of a blur, as his only real thought had been to stay on the horse. And his brief journey from the front drive to the front parlor would also remain a blur simply because of the amount of noise and movement that accompanied it. One footman spotted him climbing the steps to the portico and by the time he was taking a seat on the settee, a dozen members of Caldwell staff were buzzing around him like flies.
Max breathed a sigh of relief when Lucien strode into the room and took command, sending most of the staff away on errands. Then he poured Max a glass of brandy, pulled a chair close to the settee, and took a seat.
“Anything broken, you think?”
Max finished the drink in a single swallow, ignoring the sting of his split lip. “Oh, that’s better.” He set the glass aside and gingerly prodded the most tender spot on his rib cage where Ox had landed a particularly brutal blow. “No, nothing broken.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Mrs. Wrayburn’s men.”
Lucien went very still. “You’re certain?”
Max nodded, then wished he hadn’t. “Mother of God, that hurts.”
“I hadn’t realized she was capable of something like this.” Lucien swore viscously. “I let Anna confront her at the inn. She asked and I—”
“No, I went.”
“You did?” Lucien slumped in his seat, sighed heavily. “Thank you. Thank you for that.” He dragged a hand down his face. “Think she’s become desperate, stupid, or mad?”
“She’s not stupid. Desperate and mad are possibilities.” She had to have known the risk of discovery was high, if not inevitable.
“Do we tell Anna?”
“Tell me what?” Anna’s voice floated in from the hall, cheerful and light. “What are the pair of you doing? Mrs. Webster said you needed . . .” She trailed off and visibly paled as Lucien stepped aside and she got her first look at Max’s face. “Oh, my Lord. Oh, my God. What happened to you?”
“I ran into a bit of trouble.”
She rushed to him, sank down beside him on the settee. “Trouble? What sort of trouble results in this?”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Have you sent for the physician?” She spun on Lucien. “He should have a physician.”
“I don’t need a physician. It’s a spot of bruising, that’s all.” He took her hand gently. “I’m fine, Anna.”
“You are not fine,” she snapped, and he wasn’t sure what surprised him more, the sudden anger or the tremor he heard in her voice. “You’re a terrific mess and I’ll know the reason why. Right now.”
Well, this was . . . rather nice, Max decided. Anna was well and truly worked up over the state of his well-being, or lack thereof. She was fussing.
Lucien looked from Max, to Anna and back again, then rose from his chair. “You’re obviously in concerned hands. I’ll just see what’s delayed the physician then, shall I?”
Max would have rolled his eyes if he could have been sure Anna wouldn’t see it. The physician hadn’t arrived because the physician hadn’t been sent for. If nothing was broken, there wasn’t a point.
“Did you fall from your horse?” Anna demanded. “Is that it?”
“First off, love . . . only drunkards fall from their mounts. Everyone else is thrown. And no, I wasn’t thrown.” He was knocked off, most likely by a large stick or rock, but he felt strongly she didn’t need to know that sort of detail. “I met with a pair of unsavory men on the road from the village.”
“Someone did all this to you?” she whispered, aghast.
“A pair of someones,” he corrected. “It took two of them. And I assure you, they’re worse the wear for it.” He flexed his right hand into a fist and took grim pleasure in the ache and sting of his swollen knuckles. “I broke at least one nose today.”
“Broke a . . . ?” She glared at him, clearly appalled. “They might well have killed you. You ought have given them what they were after and been done with it. Was it worth protecting a few coins and a cravat pin? What if they’d had a gun, you fool? Or a knife?”
“They had a knife.”
Too late, he realized he shouldn’t have mentioned the knife. Anna’s gray eyes went from wide to saucer-sized; her skin paled.
“You shouldn’t have fought them. You should have given them your purse. You—”
“They didn’t want it.”
“Your horse then, or whatever it was they were after.”
“You don’t understand, love.” He took her hands, gently brought them to his lap to hold. “They weren’t highwaymen, Anna. They weren’t after my coin or my horse. They were after me.” He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “It was Ox and Jones.”
“Ox and . . . My mother’s men?” She pulled her hands away slowly. “My mother did this?”
Max had never wanted to lie so desperately in his life.
“I believe so, yes.”
“Oh, no. I knew she could be . . . But I never thought . . . I never . . .” She shook her head, her eyes shining. “This is all my fault. I should not have—”
“Stop it. I’ll not hear it.” The morning was rotten enough without having to witness Anna flog herself for her mother’s crimes. “There is nothing you have done that you should not have done. This is Mrs. Wrayburn’s doing.”
“But—”
“Only her doing.”
“And her men.”
“I . . .” If he could have done so without hurting himself, he might have laughed a little “Yes, fine, and her men. You always have to be right about something, don’t you?”
“I don’t like to think I was wasting our time in arguing.”
“My practical Anna,” he murmured. He reached up to brush the backs of his fingers across her cheek, ignoring the throb and sting of his knuckles.
When he would have dropped his hand, she caught it by the wrist and held it against her cheek. “Why would she have done this?”
Max chose his words carefully. “Because she imagined she could get away with it.”
She’d done it as revenge, and it had been directed at both of them. Mrs. Wrayburn may not have been close with her daughter, but she knew Anna well enough to know she’d feel some level of responsibility for what happened.
Provided, of course, that what happened could be traced back to Anna’s mother, which was fairly easily accomplished when one dispatched a pair of idiots like Ox and Jones.
No, Mrs. Wrayburn wasn’t stupid. Mad and desperate, however, remained on the table.
“I think,” he said, “that it would be futile to look for the rationale behind an irrational act, don’t you?”
“I suppose,” Anna murmured, clearly, and not surprisingly, unconvinced. She brought their joined hands down to her lap. “What will you do, now? Will you bring charges against her?”
“I will if you like, but I’d just as soon avoid a lengthy, public trial.” And any criminal proceedings involving not only a viscou
nt and the infamous Mrs. Wrayburn, but also Mrs. Wrayburn’s illegitimate daughter, the Marquess of Engsly’s new sister would be wildly sensationalized and on the tongues of by every member of the demimonde and beau monde alike.
Max could live with the bother of it all, but it would be a considerable inconvenience for the Haverstons and, more importantly, a living nightmare for Anna. “How do you feel about exile to a distant land?”
Anna’s gaze settled on his battered face. “She should go to prison.”
His heart twisted at the words. No one should be forced to wish such a fate on her own mother. And he’d be damned before Anna went from being the daughter of the Mrs. Wrayburn to the daughter of that Mrs. Wrayburn—the mad lady in prison. All of which was probably neither here nor there. “The truth is, if she’s not left the country already, she will once she hears I was able to identify Ox.”
“We can’t punish her at all?” Anna demanded, outraged. “She does this to you and—”
“She’ll pay a price for it,” he promised. “Either she’ll be forced to spend the remainder of her life quietly hiding in some obscure corner of the continent—”
“Lord, would she hate that.”
“Exactly. Or, and I believe this the more likely outcome. She’ll reestablish herself in Paris or Rome or some other fine city, with the expectation we’d not bother chasing her across the channel.”
“I’ll bother.”
He could see from her face that she would certainly try, and damned if he wasn’t touched, and just a little amused, but the sentiment. Not every man could claim his own knight-errant. “Thank you, love. I believe I’ll join you in that quest. Together we can banish her to somewhere less accommodating.”
“Can it be somewhere cold? She does so hate the cold. Greenland, perhaps. Or Newfoundland.”
“Kabelvåg, Norway.”
She blinked, twice. “That is . . . very specific.”
“It’s a lovely fishing village where I’ve some investments, and a gentleman overseeing those investments who can be persuaded to keep an eye on Mrs. Wrayburn after her arrival.”
Practically Wicked (Haverston Family Trilogy #3) Page 28