After her companion steered her out of the office and closed the door, she hissed, "I want to ask him more, Robin. He was hiding something."
"Yes, but he wasn't going to say more, not without physical violence, and it's premature to try that. There may be a better way to learn what we want." Instead of following the hall to the front of the building, Robin turned the other way. "Servants always know what's going on, and perhaps no one has ordered them to hold their tongues."
The door at the end of the passage led to a cobbled yard with stables built around three sides. Maxie followed Robin across the court to a set of open doors.
Inside, an elderly hostler was oiling a piece of harness and whistling tunelessly between crooked front teeth.
"Good day, sir," Robin said cheerily.
The hostler looked up, startled but not displeased to be interrupted. "Good day to you, too, sir. What can I do for you?"
"My name's Bob Andreville." Robin offered his hand. His accent had become distinctly American, far more so than Maxie's. "I was wondering, have you been working here long?"
"Nigh on to ten years." After wiping one oily hand down his trousers, the hostler returned Robin's handshake. "Name's Will Jenkins. You an American?"
"That I am, but my father was born in Yorkshire. This is my first trip to England. Would have come sooner, but for the war." He shook his head. "Damned fool things, wars. Americans and Britons should be friends."
"Ain't that the truth," the hostler agreed. "I've a cousin in Virginia. You from that part of the colonies?"
The two men continued in that vein while Maxie fidgeted, restless but realizing that Robin was right. They would learn far more from the friendly hostler than the hostile landlord.
Eventually Robin said, "A friend of mine, Max Collins, came here for a visit a few months back. Right before I sailed over myself, I heard he'd died, but no one knew exactly what had happened. I remembered he was staying at the Abingdon Inn, so I thought since I was in town I'd stop by to see what I could learn to tell his family." He pursed his lips. "We hear stories about how dangerous London is. Did thieves set on him?"
" 'Twas no such thing. Mr. Collins died right here in his bed." Jenkins shook his grizzled head. "A sorry thing, that. He was a fine gent, very pleasant to everyone, even that mawworm Watson. It was a real shock when he killed himself."
The words hit Maxie like a cannonball, the impact so shattering that it was beyond pain. He killed himself.
He killed himself. As Robin inhaled sharply, she gasped, "No. Max wouldn't do that."
Jenkins said compassionately, "Sorry to be the one to tell you if he was a friend of yours, miss, but there ain't much doubt. The gent tried to arrange it so's no one would know, but he wasn't careful enough. Musta been upset about somethin' and decided he couldn't take it no more. Most everyone feels that way sometimes. Mr. Collins was one who did somethin' about it."
As a child, Maxie had once ventured onto a frozen pond during a January thaw. Even twenty years later she had not forgotten her terror when ice she had believed solid began breaking up beneath her. Desperately she had tried to retreat to the shore, but there had been no hope or safety anywhere as the ice splintered in all directions. She had plunged into the frigid water and nearly drowned before her father heard her screams and rescued her.
Her feelings now were similar to when the ice broke under her, but a thousand times worse. What Jenkins said was impossible, unbearable, and it was not water engulfing her but unbearable anguish.
"No," she repeated, burying her face in her hands. "Papa would never kill himself. He wouldn't!" Yet the pieces fit together with horrible precision. This explained everything that she had been unable to understand.
Mindlessly she whirled away, up the alley to Long Acre. She heard Robin call her name, but his voice was distant, of no importance.
When she bolted out of the alley, she collided with a man who smelled of onions. She lost her bonnet and almost fell, but managed to regain her balance. Blindly she raced into the street, heedless of the heavy traffic.
A hoarse shout sounded in her ear. Someone grabbed her arm, jerking her from the path of a horse that reared into the air, its pawing ironclad hooves barely missing her skull.
Ignoring her rescuer, she broke away and resumed running, as if somewhere there were a place where the past was different, where she would not have to believe that her father could have killed himself. She tripped and fell full length on the filthy pavement. The breath was knocked out of her, yet she felt nothing when her knees and palms smashed into the cobblestones.
Scrambling to her feet, she was about to resume her flight when strong hands seized her. Robin's familiar voice said urgenyly, "Stop, Maxie! For God's sake, stop before you get yourself killed."
She tried to escape, but he wouldn't release her. As he hauled her out of the street, she clenched her hands into fists and struck him. "My father would never have killed himself and left me!" she cried, wild tears pouring down her face. "He loved life and he loved me. He would never have done that!"
Robin guessed that it was herself that she was trying to convince. He tried to immobilize her flailing fists by pinning her arms to her sides with an iron embrace. She continued to struggle frantically.
He gasped when one of her elbows smashed him in the stomach, knocking him breathless. She was a dangerous woman to hold against her will, but he dared not use more force. Desperate to calm her before she injured herself, he said sharply, "We don't know for sure what happened, Kanawiosta. Perhaps Jenkins was wrong. We need to know more."
She gave an agonized gasp and became still, her small body trembling in his arms. Somehow he knew that his words had produced the opposite effect of what he had intended: Rather than convincing her that the hostler might have been wrong, they had made it impossible for her to deny the truth.
He ached for her misery, knowing she was in some private hell that he could not share, not unless she would let him. Ignoring the curious onlookers, he continued speaking to her in a low voice, his lips near her ear, hoping the sound would soothe her even though she was beyond absorbing the words.
Then the instinct developed in his dangerous years on the Continent made Robin look up. Half a block away, on the far side of the stream of traffic, stood Simmons, his expression black.
Christ, why did the bastard have to show up now, of all times? Robin hailed a passing hackney. When it stopped, he swept Maxie up in his arms and pushed ruthlessly past a merchant who was trying to claim the same vehicle. To the driver, he snapped, "Mayfair as fast as you can. There will be an extra five quid if you can halve the usual time."
As the hackney lurched wildly into traffic, Robin settled on the seat and enfolded Maxie in his arms. Then he prayed for the wisdom to help her as she had helped him.
Simmons watched with a scowl as the hired carriage departed. Obviously the girl had learned the truth, and taken it even more badly than her uncle had feared. He beckoned to a scrawny urchin who worked for him regularly. "Find out where they go."
The lad darted after the hackney. When he reached it, he leaped up and grabbed a bracket on the back, then squirmed into a comfortable position for the rest of the ride.
When the lad returned, Simmons thought, at least he would be able to tell Collingwood where his niece was staying. It wasn't much, but it was all he could salvage from a job that had otherwise been a disaster from beginning to end.
Though Maxie was conscious, she was deep in shock, her body chilled and shaking. She seemed oblivious to Robin's presence. He cradled her on his lap through the ride back to Candover House, trying without success to infuse her with his own warmth.
When she first mentioned her father's death, Robin had considered the possibility of suicide, because it provided a plausible explanation for Collingwood's secrecy. What had Maxie said at Ruxton when talking about how she could not project her future? Something about a possibility that was literally unthinkable. Knowing her father better than anyon
e else did, it had never occurred to her that he was capable of taking his own life. Yet he had, and the knowledge had devastated her.
Back at Candover House, Robin carried Maxie inside past the startled butler, throwing orders over his shoulder for hot water, towels, bandages, and salve to be sent to her bedchamber. Then he carried her upstairs, laid her on her bed, and removed her ruined muslin dress and stockings. At the moment he didn't give a bloody damn about propriety.
When the supplies arrived, he dismissed the maid, then gently washed the blood and grit from the abrasions on Maxie's knees and palms. None of the injuries was deep enough to warrant bandaging, though the lacerations must have stung like the very devil when he spread salve on her raw flesh.
She didn't resist, cooperate, or show any discomfort during Robin's ministrations. She simply lay passively, eyes never meeting his. When he was done, she rolled away and buried her head in the pillows.
He wondered if her total withdrawal was an aspect of her Mohawk heritage. Not that the reason was important; what mattered was that she was shutting him out. He would never have guessed how much that would hurt.
When he finished, he pulled a blanket over her, then covered her knotted fist with his hand. "Is there anything I can do?"
She gave her head an infinitesimal shake.
"Kanawiosta, when I was drowning in grief, you told me that a burden shared is lighter," he said softly. "Is there nothing you will accept from me?"
"Not now." Her muffled voice was almost inaudible. "I'm sorry."
"Do you want me to leave?"
She nodded.
Heavy of heart, Robin stood. In spite of her petite size, she had never looked fragile, but now the slight form under the blanket looked diminished and vulnerable. He did not try to define his feelings; he only knew that he would have willingly given everything he possessed to alleviate her misery.
Needing to express some of his tenderness, he touched her raven hair in a caress too light for her to feel. Then he forced himself to leave.
Having heard from her servants that there was trouble, the duchess waited outside in a chair, her hands patiently folded in her lap. When he emerged, she asked quietly, "What happened?"
He sighed, running his hand through his hair in frustration. "Apparently Maxie's father committed suicide."
"Oh, dear Lord." Margot's face whitened. Having lost her own beloved father under tragic circumstances, she would understand Maxie's distress all too well.
"I wish to God that I could do something." Robin's mouth twisted. "But all she wants is to be left alone."
"Give her time to absorb the shock," Margot advised. "Grief is a solitary affair. Sometimes one must go inward and come to terms with it before comfort from others can be accepted."
"I'm sure you're right, Duchess." He tried to smile. "But it's very hard to see her like this."
"Love hurts, Robin." Attempting to lighten the atmosphere, she continued, "So does hunger, and I find myself hungry very often now. Come and have tea with me." Taking his arm, she marched him off to the morning room.
Tea wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.
Chapter 35
They had finished a silent tea when the butler entered with a calling card. Margot's brows rose. "Lord Collingwood is here."
Suddenly alert, Robin said, "Shall we receive him together? I have a vested interest in anything he might have to say."
"Of course."
The butler left, then ushered the visitor in a few moments later. Lord Collingwood was a tall man with a thin, tired face. After bowing to Margot, he said, "Please forgive the intrusion, Duchess, but I have reason to believe that my niece, Miss Maxima Collins, is visiting you. I would like to see her."
"She's here," Margot admitted, "but unwell and not receiving visitors. Would you like to leave a message for her?"
Collingwood hesitated. While he considered, his gaze fell on Robin, who had withdrawn to an unobtrusive position at one side of the room. The viscount's eyes narrowed. "My niece was traveling with a man of your description."
Robin inclined his head. "I am Lord Robert Andreville."
That rocked the visitor. "Wolverton's brother?"
"The same."
Collingwood shook his head in disbelief. "And here I'd been worrying that the girl had been taken in by some rogue."
"Noble birth is hardly proof against villainy," Robin said dryly. "However, my intentions regarding Miss Collins have been honorable. We met by chance. Knowing the dangers she risked, I offered my escort to ensure that she reached London safely." As he spoke, he studied Collingwood. If one looked closely, there was a faint resemblance to his sister, though he was a staider, more conventional creature than Lady Ross. Nonetheless, he seemed very much the English gentleman; not the sort to have an inconvenient brother murdered. No wonder Maxie had had trouble believing that her uncle could be so ruthless.
With a trace of humor, Collingwood said, "You certainly protected my niece from the Bow Street Runner I sent after her."
"Good Lord, Simmons is a Runner?" After a stunned moment, Robin had to laugh at himself. "I should have guessed. Maxie and I thought he was some kind of villain."
"Runners and the criminals they pursue often resemble each other," Collingwood agreed. "But Ned Simmons is one of Bow Street's best. I commissioned him to investigate my brother's death and do what he could to keep the matter from becoming public knowledge. Quite apart from the potential for scandal, I didn't want there to be any question about burying Max in holy ground. By chance, Simmons was in the north when my niece ran away, so I asked him to bring her back."
After Margot waved him to a chair, Collingwood said uneasily, "Prom what Simmons said, my niece was very upset after visiting the Abingdon Inn."
Robin nodded. "She learned that her father killed himself. The manager didn't talk-I assume that you or Simmons paid him to hold his tongue-but one of the servants told us. Maxie is taking the news very badly."
Collingwood exhaled wearily. "I was afraid of that-she was devoted to Max. I envied my brother his daughter. My own girls…" He broke off a moment, then continued, "I wanted to spare Maxima such a dreadful shock. That's why I tried to prevent her from reaching London."
"It was your attempt to conceal the truth that sent her off to investigate," Robin said acerbically. "Maxie overheard a discussion between you and your wife that implied there was some kind of foul play involved in her father's death."
"So that's what happened. At first I thought she had decided on impulse to visit my sister, Lady Ross. It wasn't until my sister appeared in Durham that I realized something was amiss. With every report Simmons sent, I became more alarmed. I'm grateful the girl didn't meet disaster." He grimaced. "Now that I don't have to worry about her life, I can begin to worry about her reputation."
"No one need know how she reached London, so her reputation is intact," the duchess pointed out. "The real problem is her reaction to the news of her father's death."
"I have some happier news for her." Collingwood studied Robin. "I gather you have constituted yourself her protector."
"You gather rightly."
"Then I suppose I can tell you Maxima is something of an heiress. It's a mere independence of five hundred pounds a year, but enough to keep her comfortably here or in America."
Robin's brows rose. In spite of Collingwood's disclaimer, it was a very considerable legacy. "From whom is she inheriting? She said her father left nothing."
"Our Aunt Maxima, Lady Clendennon, was Max's godmother. She was always fond of him. Though she complained about what a wastrel he was, she said it with a smile. She loved getting his letters." Collingwood sighed. "If Max's prudence had equaled his charm, he could have been prime minister.
"Aunt Maxima knew it would be absurd to leave Max any money, so she decided to make Max's daughter one of her heirs instead. After she died last winter, her solicitor wrote my brother in Boston, which is why he returned to England when he did. Since the lawyer wa
s being uncooperative about executing the will, Max decided to go to London to talk to him personally."
"Why didn't your brother tell Maxie about this? I've gotten the impression that she handled their financial affairs."
"Max forbade me to tell her until the matter was resolved because he didn't want her to be disappointed if it didn't work out," Collingwood explained. "As it turned out, my aunt specified that Maxima could not inherit before her twentyfifth birthday at the earliest. After that, the money was to be held in trust as long as Max was alive. Apparently my aunt was determined not to allow my brother to waste his daughter's inheritance.
"After Max died, that was no longer an issue, but the present Lord Clendennon was urging the solicitor to find a way to disqualify Maxima. I'm afraid that my cousin is a greedy devil, and the legacy will revert to him if she doesn't inherit. When Clendennon recently learned that Maxima's mother was a Red Indian, he suggested that she might be illegitimate, the product of a casual liaison, or perhaps not even Max's daughter."
Robin whistled softly. "I don't blame you for not wanting to tell Maxie that. She would have been enraged."
"And justly so. When Clendennon raised the issue, I had my solicitor write to a colleague in Boston. Last week I received a copy of my brother's marriage lines. Max and his wife were married by an Anglican priest, so Maxima is entirely legitimate." Collingwood gave a faint, satisfied smile. "Even if there hadn't been a Christian ceremony, I was prepared to argue that her parents were legally married under the laws of her mother's people. For that matter, illegitimacy would not necessarily have invalidated the bequest, but Clendennon might have used it as an excuse to cause legal trouble that would take time and money to resolve. This is much simpler."
"You've gone to considerable effort on your niece's behalf."
"Of course-she's family. Besides, I'm fond of the girl. I wish my own daughters had some of her spirit." For the first time Collingwood smiled. "But only some of it. Maxima would have been a rare handful to raise. An eccentric like Max was a better father for her." He rose to his feet. "I'll be staying at the Clarendon for several days. I'd like to see Maxima before I return to Durham. Will you tell her I called?"
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