Max didn’t approve of the disrespectful nature of Bram’s response and was about to say something when Mother shook her head and held out her hand in a gesture that suggested a need for patience. Even though Max felt he’d been patient enough for five lifetimes, he conceded to her wishes with a nod.
“If you can bear to tell us,” Mother said, “what exactly happened to her?”
“Died in childbirth, so I’m told.”
Both Max and Mother went still, the air stolen from the room. He knew better than anyone how much Mother had wanted a grandchild.
“And the baby . . . ” she asked, clearly holding her breath.
“Mine, though one can never be too certain. My wife was increasing—five months—when she left, so the odds are in my favor.”
Mother’s eyes began to well with tears. Seeing her distress at the news of losing not only a daughter-in-law but also a grandchild, Max went to her side. He wanted to rail at Bram for his callousness, but such would be unseemly at this time.
Whatever ill will might still be between them, Max would never wish such a loss on anyone. “Then I am ever sorrier for both your losses.”
“Both?”
“Your wife and child.”
Bram drank a hearty swallow and flipped his fingers inconsequentially in the air. “The child survived.”
Mother’s handkerchief paused. “Pardon me?”
“The child is a girl,” Bram said with a shrug. “Came in another carriage. Cries a great deal and never goes hoarse, if you can imagine it.”
And just as he was complaining, Saunders appeared in the doorway, his eyes strained with jagged red lines, revealing that he might have reached his limit. “A Miss Slade is here with a child in tow, my lord. She claims to be the nurse of Lord Engle’s child.”
“Just so.” Bram lifted his glass in a salute and then slumped down into the leather winged chair by the hearth.
And then, before their eyes, a shy young woman with a ruffled cap over her pretty blonde head stepped out from behind Saunders. The woman—who couldn’t have been more than eighteen years of age—possessed an uncanny resemblance to the former Miss Leonard, the late Marchioness of Engle. And sleeping against the crook of her shoulder was not an infant but a downy-headed child with limbs long enough to dangle beside Miss Slade’s hip and wrap around her neck.
Miss Slade curtsied and bowed her head but did not speak.
Mother stepped forward as well, inspecting the child and looking first to Max, with her brow wrinkled in confusion, and then to Bram. “Surely this child, which is hardly a newborn, could not be yours,” she whispered.
“She was born a year ago, Tuesday last,” Bram announced, rising from the chair. But at the sound of his voice, the child stirred. Lifting her head, her mouth puckered into a frown that dimpled her chin. In response, Bram scoffed in disgust and returned to the sideboard.
“Do you mean to tell me that your wife has been dead a year, and I have had a granddaughter for all that time, and you never bothered to mention it?” Mother’s rightful outrage was palpable, though not at all like her. The woman, who was all ease and nurture, seemed to age in that moment. A spindly spray of lines creased the corners of her eyes, which dimmed and turned darker as she glared at Bram’s back. “Does she have a name?”
“Patrice,” Bram spat, as if the name tasted of venom on his tongue.
“Named after her mother,” Max said absently, reeling somewhat from the news he’d learned in the past quarter hour.
“My late wife’s lover named her. He thought to raise the child as his own, but after a time, the fond memories of his affair seemed to fade, and he was no longer so keen to raise another man’s spawn. So he shipped her off to me”—he spread his arms wide, glass in one hand, decanter in the other—“and now here we are.”
The child’s chin trembled, her face reddening. Miss Slade instantly began to pat her back, making shushing sounds before the inevitable wail.
And what a bellow! Max stared, dumfounded by the volume such a small creature could emit. He was torn between wanting to cover his ears and wanting to add his own hand to the patting process in the hopes that it would soothe his niece.
His niece.
The words that carried a familial bond stalled his thoughts. The brother, of whom he’d never been particularly fond, now had a child. And by all accounts, an unwanted child. Max felt his heart squeeze in sympathy for little Patrice. Fate had already cast a black mark against the child for having been born to two exceedingly selfish people. There was no need to add to her life’s burdens. Therefore, Max stepped forward, his hands outstretched.
After a clumsy exchange, he took the child in his arms, resting her tiny bottom on his forearm as he walked into the hall, Miss Slade’s footfalls close behind.
“Perhaps it is time that we took a stroll to the nursery,” Max said to his niece, keeping his voice low. Whether it was the movement or the alteration in the environment, he didn’t know, but little Patrice’s cries quieted to air-sucking sniffles through her tiny, upturned nose.
At the end of the hall, Saunders appeared again. “I’m having the nursery prepared, Lord Thayne.”
“Thank you, Saunders. Would you be so kind as to do me one more favor?”
The butler didn’t hesitate. “Certainly, my lord.”
Since Max could see that the strain of the day was practically cracking the man in two, he decided to send him on an errand of peace and quiet. “I’m unsure of how many bottles of port we have, and I find myself rather curious at the moment. I would appreciate it if you would disappear into your pantry for an hour or so to sort that out.”
The tight flesh around Saunders’s eyes seemed to soften as he bowed. “Very good, my lord.”
As Max made the climb to the nursery, he continued to speak to his niece, whose hands had now found his face and who kept a close, wide-eyed study of his features.
“You are quite fortunate to be blessed with the finest grandmother for whom one could ever hope,” he said to her. “Barring recent events, she is rarely cross and has a warm, affectionate nature. I’m sure that once she overcomes her shock, she will be more herself.”
When he reached the nursery, he’d concluded his speech with the certainty that she understood everything he said the moment her head bobbled in a nod. “There’s a good little sprite. Now, stay with Miss Slade, and I will visit later.”
Leaving her with the nurse, Max went back to the study, no longer feeling so compassionate toward his brother. By the time he heard their voices in the hall, he was prepared for battle.
“I thought I made it clear that we are past any period of mourning. Therefore we can have a party, and the sooner the better,” Bram said, continuing the same argument as before.
“That may be true in fact; however, we are only now learning of her death. Surely there is a precedent to follow under such circumstances.”
“Why do you think I stayed away so long? Hell, why do you think I never wrote to you about her death?” Bram shouted. “That whore didn’t deserve any outward display of respect after what she had done.”
Max stormed in, appalled and outraged, then closed the door behind him. “But our mother deserves respect, so mind your language in her presence. And for that matter, cease this despicable drunken display. You’ve made it clear that this vice is not due to grief.”
Bram trained his squinted eyes on Max and tossed back the last of his drink. “Traveling here, I’d imagined this sort of unwelcome reception when I brought the sordid news. Likely that is why my nerves are in a lather, and I required a medicinal tonic to soothe them. Nevertheless, little brother is right. My apologies, Mother.”
Mother walked over to the chair and laid a hand on Bram’s shoulder. “The news must have been difficult for you to bear alone. It is good that you are here at last.”
Max fought the urge to roll his eyes as Bram lifted his gaze and smiled sweetly to her. When she patted his cheek, apparently all was forgi
ven.
“Why is the party so important to you?” she asked.
“As I said, the child wails incessantly. Miss Slade knows not what to do and seeks my counsel.”
“Perhaps if you’d hired a nurse who was a little older and with experience . . . ” Max murmured before both Mother and Bram interrupted him with a warning glare. Suddenly, it felt as if the past were being played out before him with few alterations.
“What I need,” Bram continued, “is a wife to see to these trivial matters. I have an estate to run. Surely even Max can understand the importance of that.”
Mother offered a resolute shake of her head. “Unfortunately, with this recent news, even your brother’s plans to find a bride must be delayed, perhaps until next Season.”
“Next Season?” the brothers parroted in simultaneous incredulity.
“The custom is for a mother-in-law to be in mourning for six months and for a brother-in-law, six weeks.” Mother dusted her hands together. “I’m afraid this Season would be over by then. Most of the families will be away from town by the middle of June.”
Bram sat up straighter and cast a smirk to Max. “As I have already observed my period of mourning, and I have a child in need of a mother, I see no reason why I cannot begin the hunt immediately.”
Mother pursed her lips in consideration and then nodded. “It is true. A widower with a small child would be expected to remarry, posthaste. However, none of us shall venture into the social sphere until a suitable time has passed. There will be no balls, parties, dinners, picnics, teas, or”—her gaze veered to Max—“paying calls.”
In other words, no Juliet for the time being. Not seeing her for a full week? Impossible. How would he survive it?
“For many gentlemen, those customs are pushed aside, as they have responsibilities and business to attend.” Max felt that old sting of unfairness well up inside of him, even as guilt assailed him. Battling with these inner demons, he promised to grieve for his sister-in-law but not when he was so close to getting what he wanted most.
“Of course you can attend to business, and you should keep Bram with you. It would do you both good.”
“You seem awfully eager,” Bram said, eyeing him. “I suspect that you have settled on a bride, and now I am curious to learn her name.”
Max wasn’t about to make any bold declaration at this time. Nor was he going to hint at her name, especially not when he wasn’t even certain he could convince her. “It is no one you know and therefore none of your concern.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Season Standard—the Daily Chronicle of Consequence
The prodigal Marquess of E—e has returned! Once a great favorite of this page, Lord E—e arrived yesterday but with the dreadful news of his late wife. Whispers abound of the scandal that kept Lord E—e in mourning for a year without even speaking of it. Shocking, indeed! The hushed nature has set many tongues wagging. What’s more was the sighting of a child entering H— House. We are all eager for our next glimpse of Lord E—e and are left to wonder if he will don the black cravat of mourning or the snow white one of courting.
In other news, Lady F—th has recently reported a theft at her residence. Apparently, her famed aviary was breached by an intruder . . .
“Lady Granworth, perhaps this concept is beyond your understanding and best left to your man of accounts,” the banker, Mr. Woldsley, said with a condescending sniff through his bulbous nose.
Juliet had encountered many men who detested doing business with a woman. And certainly there were bankers and tellers enough for her to find one more amenable to working with her. However, it was because of Mr. Woldsley’s supreme distaste for women in his establishment that Juliet found it rather necessary to work with him.
On previous occasions, she had even heard him make derogatory comments about Lady Jersey’s operation of the Child & Co. bank, declaring that she was “quite good at being led by the men in her employ.”
And while Juliet did not think that she could alter his opinion, she would do her utmost to irritate him.
Smiling, she spoke calmly. “I believe it is more a matter of recollection—yours, in particular—Mr. Woldsley. I have told you many times that I prefer not to deal in banknotes but gold and silver instead. It really is that simple. And if you would do as requested, just imagine how much sooner you could be rid of me.”
He snickered at her. “Oh, Mrs. Granworth—”
“Lady Granworth, if you please.”
“Yes, of course,” he drawled. “What you are failing to grasp is that the banknotes are equivalent to the gold and silver you deposited.”
She held accounts in a handful of banks, but her fortune was not singularly invested. Juliet took pride in her own autonomy, knowing that her success had come from seizing control of her own destiny.
She folded her hands in her lap. “Do you believe that men are perfect?”
A confused sort of frown removed his smirk. “No man of any sense would make such a categorical proclamation.”
For the first time since she stepped foot inside this institution, Juliet’s smile was genuine. “If men are fallible, Mr. Woldsley, then certainly that which they have created may fall under scrutiny. Therefore, I retain my preference for gold and silver over your institution’s notes.” She slid her written request across his desk. “If you please.”
At her irrefutable logic, he no longer argued. Either that, or she had given him a megrim.
Nevertheless, moments later, she left the bank with her coin purse full but, most of all, with a priceless sense of satisfaction.
“Lady Granworth, as I live and breathe.” The familiar smooth cadence stopped her instantly on the pavement.
Slowly, she turned around. Bram. There he stood, handsome and fit as ever, his pale features angular, his frame lean. The only sign of wear the passing years had given him was in the first strands of gray threaded with the blond at his temples and loss of luster in his irises. He looked dashing in a way that had always made her heart beat faster. She waited to see if it would happen again . . .
“You are even lovelier than my fondest memory,” he said, removing his hat and placing it over his heart. His broad grin revealed a set of dimples that had once fueled her dreams.
She smiled, pleased by the compliment that implied she had entered his thoughts a time or two over the years, as he had hers. “And you are still as charming, I see, Lord Engle.” Then, suddenly, she remembered the reason for his return to London, and her smile fell. “I was terribly sorry to learn of your wife’s passing. I hope you received the letter that Zinnia and I sent.”
“I did, thank you.” He nodded somberly, curling his hands over the brim of his hat. “Though it is somewhat odd, albeit warming, to receive condolences under such circumstances.”
Juliet nodded, finding it more prudent to say as little as possible. Marjorie had already sent a missive to Zinnia, listing the worst of the news regarding his late wife’s indiscretions. “I have also heard that you have a daughter. Congratulations.”
Bram chuckled. “A prayer for my sanity would be more apt, but thank you nonetheless.”
She wasn’t certain what he meant but supposed it was a jest of his own. At one time, she might have understood those small asides, after having spent so much time in his company. But that wasn’t the case any longer. In fact, she didn’t even know how to reply.
It felt strange to stand there with Bram and not have Max nearby. Thinking back, Max had always been there, through every party, every dinner, every moment . . . And without him, there was a void that she never fully realized before. Now it seemed so clear.
“I am surprised not to see Max with you this morning, as his solicitor’s office is only a few doors down.” Though just when she finished her sentence, she caught a glimpse of him beyond Bram’s shoulder, emerging from that very doorway.
Now her heart did indeed race. The urgency of every beat drowned out whatever response Bram had made, forcing he
r to nod absently in response. And then Max saw her. The tight expression he wore instantly fell away, replaced with something more intimate. That was, until he noted to whom she was speaking. Then his eyes hardened, and his mouth set in a grim line.
At last, when Max stood beside his brother, he removed his hat and placed it over his heart. “My lady.”
Not Lady Granworth, Juliet noted, pleased not to have the reminder of the mistake she’d made five years ago. “My lord.”
The tension in Max’s jaw eased noticeably, and the smile he gave her was so enthralling that she was tempted to repeat herself.
“As I was saying,” Bram continued, “Mother is still sorting out matters of decorum after learning of . . . the news. For the time being, however, she has declared that we shall observe mourning for a week and then half mourning.”
“And for the next seven days, she has requested that Bram and I only leave the house for business matters,” Max said, a wealth of hidden meaning in his gaze. In other words, there would be no social calls, no hurried parlor moments, and likely no visits to the house they were fighting over either.
She felt the loss keenly. “Your mother is all warmth and compassion. Her example makes us all the better for it.”
“Hmm . . . yes,” Bram agreed. “Though I must say, my little brother is positively stewing over the imprisonment. Just last night, he complained that his courtship of a certain young debutante would be stalled.”
Max cleared his throat and shot Bram an obvious look of warning.
“Just last night, you say?” Inwardly, Juliet started. Though why this news surprised her, she didn’t know. After all, Max had made no secret about wanting to find a wife before settling into his home in Lancashire. Yet up until now, she was under the impression that Max was still in the process of making a list for a ball, hoping to narrow down his choice.
And suddenly, she wondered if the intimate collision between them had been a mistake. It had happened rather unexpectedly, after all. In fact, Max might have already had a bride in mind.
Juliet glanced away toward her waiting carriage and down to the folding step that her tiger had just lowered. She wished to flee as soon as possible. With effort, when she turned back, she had a smile in place. “Congratulations, Max. Is your bride-to-be someone I know?”
When a Marquess Loves a Woman Page 16