“Oh. So you can’t afford new springs for your coach, and yet you can afford a visit to Aphrodite’s? I don’t call that sound economics.”
He turned his head so that he could look up and see her face properly, and wasn’t so distracted by other things. “Is this any of your business, Miss Greentree?”
She fixed him with an intent look. “It may be. Which girl were you going to request at Aphrodite’s? Before you saw me, of course.”
“Of course.”
She sounded smug, and he supposed she had the right to be. He had offered to pay for an entire night of her company. What in God’s name had possessed him? Some form of madness, that was certain. Well, he was cured of it now, Max told himself, at the same time snuggling in against her. She smelled of roses and woman, and despite her stays, she was incredibly soft…
He opened one eye and looked up at her. She appeared to be waiting for something, but when he tried to remember what it was he got caught up in the perfect shape of her face and her pert little nose and those long, curling dark lashes framing her blue eyes.
“Which girl, Max? Have there been so many that you can’t remember?” She sounded unhappy with him; now her fingers were tugging at his hair rather than caressing.
Max cleared his throat. “Why…?”
“Was it Maeve?” Marietta asked suddenly, but she was hoping it wasn’t. This morning Maeve had seemed like a possible friend, but that didn’t mean she wanted Maeve and Max to have been lovers. It made her uncomfortable.
Max fixed her with another one of his slightly unfocused looks, as if he’d misplaced her name. “No,” he said at last. “Not Maeve. Anyway, a gentleman isn’t supposed to reveal such things.”
He said it so pompously that Marietta’s fingers itched to yank out the hair she was smoothing. Instead she said, “I’m not asking you to tell secrets, my lord. I’m interested in…in whether you have a favorite type of woman. I have heard it said that men have preferences. For instance: dark or fair hair or auburn, blue eyes or brown, tall or short, plump or slender. Tell me, do you have a preference, my lord?”
“No, I don’t,” he said stubbornly. And then, the frown leaving his face, “You called me ‘my lord.’ What happened to Max?”
“I decided it was improper. You are a lord, and we are near strangers. I shouldn’t be calling you by your first name.”
“I’m not a lord, not anymore,” Max muttered. He moved restlessly, winced, and then sighed. There was something in that sigh that made Marietta’s heart ache for him. Max may be arrogant and bad-tempered, but he was suffering.
His voice was low, so low that she had to bend her head closer to hear him. “I am nothing.”
“Oh Max, I’m sure you—”
“I am nothing.”
Marietta bit her lip and fell silent. Max, too, was quiet, brooding on his uncertain future. After a moment she looked out of the window and realized they had entered a very elegant square, with a garden and plane trees at its center. The coach drew to a halt on the other side, in front of an austere but elegant Georgian townhouse.
“Where are we?” she asked. “I don’t think I know this square.”
“Bedford Square,” Max said, seemingly glad to change the subject, although he spoke with an effort.
“Bedford…?”
“It isn’t fashionable among the aristocracy. My father took the house from the Duke of Bedford for a pittance, when he couldn’t get anyone other than lawyers interested in living here. Hoped having a duke in residence would help attract others. It didn’t, but at least my father felt he’d got a bargain.”
The door to the townhouse opened on the figure of an elderly butler, who hobbled down the four shallow stairs to the street. Behind him a plump woman of the same vintage gathered her skirts and numerous petticoats up above her ankles and picked her way carefully in his wake.
“Daniel!” the butler called, just as the driver jumped down.
Daniel Coachman was a huge man, with wide shoulders and bulging arms, and it didn’t take him long to gather Max into those arms and extract him from inside the coach. Another man had joined the little group at the bottom of the stairs, a tall, thin gentleman in a frock coat of an unpleasant green color and plaid pantaloons. He proceeded to direct proceedings, continually urging caution. “Mind now, Daniel,” he said in a fussy manner, waving his hands about. “Mind! Is the bed ready, Mrs. Pomeroy?”
Mrs. Pomeroy’s round face was flushed. “It is, sir, don’t you fret. All nice and warmed up for his lordship here.”
“Carry him upstairs then, Daniel. Have you sent for the doctor, Pomeroy?”
The three servants went strangely still, avoiding each others’ eyes. “No, sir,” Pomeroy answered. “The doctor wouldn’t come.”
“Wouldn’t come?” the gentleman’s eyes blazed. “What the devil do you mean, he wouldn’t come?”
“He knows his lordship can’t pay him. Sir.”
There was more than a hint of animosity in his voice. The gentleman heard it, and his face colored. Suddenly his anger was gone, replaced by discomfort. “Ah, I see. Well, send for him directly and inform him that I shall pay him.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” The elderly butler looked very relieved.
Daniel Coachman was carrying Max up the steps and into his townhouse, with the elderly Pomeroys tottering in his wake, and that was when Marietta realized she had been overlooked. The gentleman in the green-colored frock coat was last up the steps, calling out more instructions as he went—in a moment he would be gone, too, and she would be left, standing all alone, in the street.
“Excuse me, sir?”
At the sound of her voice the tall, thin stranger stopped and turned. His eyes were the same mahogany brown color as Max’s, but far less intimidating. “I’m sorry, you are…?”
“I am Miss Marietta Greentree. I accompanied Ma…that is, Lord Roseby, from Aphrodite’s Club. He was too ill to travel alone and none of his servants had come to help him.”
There was an implied criticism in her words and the gentleman was not slow in understanding her. “As you see, Miss Greentree, the Pomeroys are elderly and would not have been of much use. They were better remaining here, preparing the house. Daniel had to drive the coach, but he is a good lad and could be relied upon to help when needed. As for myself, I have only just arrived or you can be sure I would instantly have offered my services.” His tone was polite, but his gaze had grown watchful.
“But, surely, he has other servants?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Of course not, Marietta thought. He can’t pay them. He’s disinherited. This is all he has left—an elderly butler and his wife, and a coachman. He’s no longer Lord Roseby—he’s a nobody.
The gentleman had ventured back to the street, and now his puzzled gaze slid quickly over her, taking in her emerald green velvet cloak and fair ringlets. Marietta realized that he was trying to decide just what her role was at Aphrodite’s Club. Perhaps she did not fit his image of a courtesan-in-the-making, for a moment later he smiled and bowed and introduced himself.
“I am Harold Valland, Miss Greentree—Max’s cousin. Pomeroy sent a note to my house this morning, informing me of what had happened. If only I had known last night, I would have hastened at once to his side.”
Harold sounded sincere, but was he? Marietta wasn’t certain. Perhaps she was predisposed to distrust Harold because he was Max’s cousin and the duke had chosen him as the new heir over Max. He did not seem too awful.
Marietta smiled. “Lord Roseby has a headache and I think some fever. He will need his doctor to attend him, sir.”
“Yes, yes, Pomeroy will go for the man.” Then, perhaps realizing that she had been a witness to that scene, Harold looked away. “I don’t know how well you are acquainted with my cousin, Miss Greentree—”
“I know a little of his life, Mr. Valland.”
“He is a very proud man. One does what one can, but one must tread carefully.
”
“I imagine one must.”
Harold seemed to believe that was explanation enough. “I should go and see if the Pomeroys have made Max comfortable. Thank you, Miss Greentree, for your kindness to my cousin.”
“I must get back. My sister will be worried.” Marietta knew a dismissal when she heard one.
Harold was looking up towards the house, obviously keen to get inside and see to Max. “Your sister?” he said vaguely.
“Lady Montegomery.”
Harold started, and turned back to her. For a moment his face was blank, and she had an image of his brain, working furiously through a list of the aristocracy currently residing in London. “Do you mean that your sister is the wife of—”
“Lord Montegomery. Yes, Oliver is my brother-in-law.”
The penny dropped. He smiled, obviously relieved that she was the sister of a peer, and therefore respectable. “Of course. Of course! Lord Montegomery, of course. But you must come inside and wait, Miss Greentree, while I have a hansom fetched.”
Amazing, Marietta thought, what dropping Oliver’s name could do. Still, she could hardly hold being a snob against Harold—it was a common enough tendency.
Marietta allowed him to steer her into the entrance hall, where Mrs. Pomeroy was fidgeting about at the bottom of a broad, curving staircase, twisting her hands in her apron. And no wonder. The sounds coming from upstairs were loud and ominous. Just then Max’s voice rose in a shout, followed by a terrible, heart-rending groan.
“Oh dear,” Marietta said, her eyes wide. “His head hurts him a great deal.”
“Poor young sir!” the old woman cried. “I should not have let Daniel take him up to his room, but Pomeroy went off for the doctor and…” Her eyes filled with tears. “The truth is, I can’t manage the stairs anymore, miss. My legs give out on me.”
“Oh dear,” Marietta said again. “What a mess you are all in. Perhaps you would allow me to help, Mrs. Pomeroy? I am quite good at helping.”
Mrs. Pomeroy’s worried face sagged with relief. “Oh, please do, miss. Daniel’s a good lad but he’s not the brightest star in the sky, if you get my meaning.”
“If you’re sure you wouldn’t mind, Miss Greentree…?” Harold added his own encouragement, and gestured for her to lead the way.
The staircase was grand and beautiful—Marietta could imagine duchesses sweeping down it, in opulent gowns. But Max wouldn’t have a duchess; if he did marry she would be a plain Mrs., and Marietta thought she would need to be a very patient and forbearing woman.
The noises were coming from a suite of rooms that obviously belonged to the master of the house. They were decorated in a heavy, dark style she found rather oppressive, and the furniture looked as if it had done service in Henry Tudor’s day. The bed in particular. And that was where she found Max.
He had been deposited on the enormous four-poster bed, with its lush canopy and intricately turned posts, and he wasn’t happy. A white-faced, stammering Daniel Coachman admitted to lowering him too hastily, and the subsequent jarring had caused his headache to suddenly worsen. Max’s face was the color of old parchment, his already reddened eyes were watering with tears of pain and understandable self-pity, and there was a fresh patch of blood staining the bandage around his forehead.
“Do move him carefully!” Marietta cried, seeing the state he was in. “Carefully, further onto the bed! That’s it. Best to wait for the doctor before we undress him. No, Daniel, leave his boots. And his trousers! Oh, leave him, do…”
“You can go now Daniel,” Harold said sternly.
The well-meaning but not too bright Daniel lumbered out. Marietta reached to touch Max’s cheek, her fingers gentle, and he shivered as if he were cold. “You poor thing,” she whispered.
“Hurts,” he managed through gritted teeth.
“I know, I know it does. The doctor will be here in a moment. He will give you laudanum, Max, then you can sleep. I can’t understand why you weren’t given any before you set out.”
Max groaned.
“Max, old boy? It’s me.” Harold peered out from behind her as if he was uncertain of his welcome.
Max opened slitted eyes. “I know it’s you, Harold, who else would wear a coat in that vile color?”
“Stiff upper lip, cousin. We’ll have you as right as rain in no time.”
“Put me back together again,” Max managed with a feeble laugh.
“Like Humpty Dumpty?” Harold had caught on. “Yes, that’s it, old chap.”
Marietta glanced from one to the other, sensing that there was a real bond between the cousins, an almost brotherly warmth and affection that had been born in their childhood and made any betrayal by Harold seem all the more unlikely. Perhaps Harold was as much a victim of the situation as Max, although he stood to gain a great deal more.
Or perhaps he was just a very good actor.
Max’s hand was clenching and unclenching on the bedclothes. To stop him Marietta clasped his fingers firmly in her own. Max sighed, as if her touch gave him comfort, and fell quiet. Harold smiled and nodded at her, and went to watch by the window. And they all remained like that until the doctor arrived and gave Max something to make him sleep. Then, finally, Marietta was able to slip away.
“You will let me know how he is?” she asked Harold, as he accompanied her out to the hansom cab.
“Yes, of course, Miss Greentree. Perhaps you will call again and see for yourself? There could be no objection, surely, in visiting the sick?”
“None at all.” And if there was, Marietta didn’t care. Visiting Max’s sickbed sounded like a perfect way to build on their…Friendship? Was it a friendship? Or was their relationship too testy, too volatile for such a mellow title?
Harold smiled and bowed over her hand. “I want to thank you for your care of my cousin, Miss Greentree. He, and I, are very grateful.”
He was still standing there, watching her with a distinctly speculative gleam in his eyes, as the hansom cab took her away.
All was very quiet at Berkley Square. Vivianna was resting and her son was sleeping. Oliver, too, was taking a nap. Marietta went to her own room to bathe and change, and afterwards she felt more able to face the world. The night she had spent at Aphrodite’s seemed like a dream, except that it had been very real.
Did Aphrodite really set her a task to perform, a task involving her asking Max to show her how to kiss? Did Max really get attacked, and by whom? Was Marietta really intending to become involved with Max and his eccentric household? It seemed so, because she was already smiling to herself, imagining their next encounter.
Mr. Jardine was in the hall when she descended the stairs, his blue eyes twinkling up at her. “Miss Marietta! We heard from Aphrodite that you had something of an adventure.”
“Did you?”
“How is Lord Roseby?”
“He is uncomfortable, but he’s in his own bed now, and his doctor has seen him. I think, once his head stops aching, he will be very much better.” Her mouth primmed. “And it wasn’t an adventure, Mr. Jardine. It was an act of charity.”
“Yes, of course,” he agreed, but the twinkle in his eyes was not diminished, and Marietta realized he knew her too well to be fooled by her protest.
“What did Aphrodite say?” she asked him curiously.
“That Lord Roseby had been struck down and, as you were acquainted with him, you had decided to keep an eye on him overnight. It was all very respectable, and so she assured your sister.”
“And what did Vivianna say?”
“She expressed some puzzlement as to how you had come to be acquainted with Lord Roseby, but then the baby was brought in and all else was forgotten.”
Thanks goodness for the baby! Perhaps, Marietta thought, she wouldn’t get a reprimand from Vivianna after all.
“Tell me, my dear, is Lord Roseby the son of the Duke of Barwon?”
Surprised, she met Mr. Jardine’s curious gaze. “Yes. At least…it’s rather a long story. Do y
ou know Max, Mr. Jardine?”
Mr. Jardine gave her a little smile that hinted at much. “I don’t know Max, no, but I used to know his father. I was out in the West Indies with him.”
“Oh.” Suddenly Marietta decided that she very much wanted to confide in Mr. Jardine about Max’s dilemma, and to hear what he had to say in return. She trusted him to keep her words to himself, and she knew his observations would be sensible and to the point. “Are you too busy to have a little chat, sir?” she asked him, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm.
He met her gaze and read her in an instant. “No, I’m not too busy,” he assured her. “And I would love some tea and cake. I’ll send for some of that excellent Pavini cake, shall I? You can come to the library, and help me to eat it.”
Marietta laughed. “You understand me very well, Mr. Jardine.”
“I should, Miss Marietta. I have known you for most of your life.”
When they were settled cozily before the fire, surrounded by Oliver’s large collection of books, Marietta explained to Mr. Jardine what she had heard of Max’s predicament. It took some time, and they had to pause in the middle of the story to drink their tea and eat their slices of the rich, fruity Pavini cake.
When she was done, Mr. Jardine sat, thoughtfully watching the fire. “I knew Barwon in Jamaica,” he said at last. “He was never what I would call a warm man, he was too serious and gruff in his manner. Reserved, except when he spoke of his family. His wife and son were everything to him; he would have moved heaven and earth for them, if he had to. In business he had a reputation for being careful, one might almost say parsimonious, but he had reason to be like that. The family fortunes had been frittered away by his father and it was up to him to restore them. That was why he was in Jamaica, buying up some of the old, rundown plantations and making them profitable again.”
“And did he? Restore the family fortunes?”
“Yes, yes, he did. He made a better fist of it than I did, at any rate,” he added, with a self-deprecating laugh. “I didn’t have the necessary single-mindedness, perhaps.”
“You mean that you didn’t have the stomach for it?” Marietta suggested less delicately.
Rules of Passion Page 9