Authors: Compromised
AS
the hack rumbled to a stop in front of Max’s nondescript lodgings, his mind was too tired to review his answers any longer. His one solace was the fact that, yes, it seemed as if Evangeline would be his bride. After the lengthy debriefing, Sir Geoffrey had outlined the whole plan for him—a social strategy devised to keep the truth hazy and the gossips at bay. To openly and honestly court his bride-to-be for a month would leave the Ton with the impression that the gossip was false, and there was nothing untoward about their relationship, and the marriage would invalidate any leftover critics. Romilla was to be complimented.
But still, a month seemed an awfully long time to wait, especially when he had his father breathing down his neck.
Max alighted from the carriage, and as if fate had read his thoughts, he saw another carriage parked in front of his red brick building. Even in the low light, the crest of Longsbowe was unmistakable on the side of the lacquered black carriage.
“From one fatherly interrogation to another,” Max stated to no one in particular as he headed to the house. Harris greeted him at the door, a rushed formality about him.
“Sir! You have returned. I sent word to your club and the museum, but they came back saying you were not in attendance. May I ask where—?”
“Don’t worry, Harris, I wasn’t kidnapped,” Max said, trying for a bit of levity, but his weariness showed through. “Actually, I was kidnapped, but never fear, I survived. Where is he?”
Harris closed the door and took his master’s coat. “I was able to avoid putting him in the study this time, sir. He’s in the drawing room.”
Max nodded, sighed heavily, and went to face his father.
“Good gravy, young fool, what tangle have you gotten yourself into now?”
The Earl sat in Max’s favorite large, deep green winged armchair closest to the fire. His walking cane leaned against the mantel, its golden handle gleaming in the firelight. The Earl was painfully hunched, but his eyes held the sparkle of the engaged mind. And the Earl’s gaze was glued to his son.
“I take it you’ve heard,” Max drawled.
“Heard? I haven’t stopped hearing! There was no other topic of conversation at the club!” The Earl banged his arm on the chair.
“You went to your club?” Max asked, incredulous. “You went out of the house?”
“Well, no,” the Earl admitted. “I sent Rentworth, and he reported back to me.”
Max nodded. Rentworth, his father’s longtime glorified servant, was actually a minor baron, and wholly loyal to the Earl. Rentworth’s baronetcy allowed him into the clubs, into the music halls, and even into Almack’s, from which he reported the most powerful information in London: gossip. The Earl never left his home if it could be avoided. Obviously, tonight that was not possible.
“Maximillian, this is solvable. Listen to me, sit down.” The softened tone of the Earl’s voice caught Max off guard, and he reflexively moved to the chair across from his father. He hesitated halfway there, but his father’s imploring look had him sitting in a trice.
“No one knows it was you. The report is a tall gentleman with dark hair and green eyes was caught ravishing Sir Geoffrey’s daughter.”
Max was taken aback. “How, then, did you know it was me?” he asked slowly.
“Dark hair, green eyes, and the stupidity to be caught. Call it parental intuition.”
Ignoring the jibe, Max was a little surprised the Earl knew the color of his eyes—but then recalled they were the same as his father’s.
“Then I am shocked, Father,” Max said as he leaned back in his chair, “that you think no one else will figure it out either.”
The Earl waved a gnarled hand in front of him. “Bah! Londoners are remarkably dull-witted en masse. You will simply go about your regular routine, as if nothing occurred. Do not visit the Altons again, and if you run into them in society, be polite, but unfamiliar—people will never suspect you.”
“It occurs to me,” Max started slowly, “that if I deny my involvement, it would be exceedingly rare for me to run into the Altons out in society. They would never be allowed to associate in it.”
“That, while unfortunate, is their problem.”
“
Their
problem?” Max repeated, incredulous.
“The point is, you shouldn’t be forced to marry her because of one stupid incident!” the Earl roared.
“You
want
me to marry!” Max exploded, nearly oversetting his chair as he stood. He descended on his father, leaning over him with shaking frustration. “
You
have employed blackmail to get me to marry! You were here for that conversation, weren’t you? It took place right across the hall, in the study. You said, ‘Get married, Max, or I’ll ruin your life from beyond the grave!’ And now that there is a bride on the horizon, you tell me to make a fool out of her? To refuse to marry her, to even be seen in public with her after egregiously harming her reputation? How dare you? How bloody dare you?”
“I do it because, believe it or not, I care about your future,” the Earl shot back with stuttered breath. “If you require more time to search your marriage options…I’ll give you another month. But this Miss Alton is obviously a harlot! A girl who gave herself up at her first ball in society? She’s probably a fortune hunter! Her father’s a grasping opportunist…She is obviously unworthy of the name Longsbowe!”
Max was seething. He paced, prowled the room. “She didn’t ‘give herself up,’ damn it all—it was just one harmless kiss!”
The Earl raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“She is not a harlot. The incident was innocent and entirely my fault. Get that through your head, Father, right now. I am a gentleman, and it was entirely my fault.”
“Then the girl is exceedingly stupid to have allowed it to happen,” the Earl argued. For a weak old man, he could put up a fight when necessary. “Besides, a woman raised on the road? She’s practically a gypsy. That’s no life for you.”
“Father, only the impracticality of disposing of your body is keeping me from patricide at the moment,” Max said with a dark gleam in his eyes.
“She is not good enough for you, for Longsbowe. I have had Rentworth draw up a list of suitable ladies—Evangeline Alton is nowhere on it,” the Earl said with finality.
“That’s what this is about,” Max said, with dawning realization. “You do not approve of Miss Alton, because you didn’t choose her yourself! Well, not to worry, you have nothing to complain against. Evangeline Alton is beautiful and kind, and I happen to like her very much. Her family is wealthy—”
“Grasping nobodies—bah! Vagabonds, the lot of them, traipsing around the world!” the Earl snorted.
“Vagabonds don’t tend to have an estate in Surrey and a house on Berkeley Square.”
Silence reigned as the Earl’s eyes searched the room, looking desperately for his next argument.
“I don’t like it,” he finally grumbled.
“You don’t have to like it,” Max stated. “I’m the one marrying her. And I will, Father. That was one of the terms of your blackmail.”
“But son, I—”
“Don’t call me that,” Max spat out, his hurt showing. “We haven’t anything in common any longer, except blood.”
And with that, Max silently left the room.
THE
Earl sat a while, watching the fire embers crackle in the hearth. He was too hard a man to weep, but too cut by his son’s last words to not feel the cold. So, he watched the fire until it died, rose on gnarled and shaky legs, and left the house.
THE
next morning, Max woke surprisingly sated. He had slept deeply as always, but more so because for the first time since he left Longsbowe Park, he had stood up to his father. Any wince of regret he felt at that last parting comment was quickly swallowed by the thought of his upcoming day.
Max was going to the Altons’ to pay court to Evangeline. Somewhere in the mass of confusion that was yesterday, he remembered something about agreeing to a carriage ride in the park at high riding hours. This presented a problem, as he had a feeling he was expected to provide a carriage. Having his horse boarded and occasionally hiring hacks had its advantages, but impressing young ladies with his frugality was not generally among them. He would be damned, Max thought, if he would call round to Longsbowe House and take one of their carriages, especially after last night—so he turned to the next viable option. He sent a quick note off to Will, begging for the favor of his smartest conveyance, and salvation was delivered to Max’s doorstep at precisely one o’clock: a shining gray open barouche, Will’s best whip neatly in control of a lovely pair of matched bays. Max took a moment to question whether or not a barouche of this size was too much, but ultimately decided that as his note was nonspecific in the type of carriage, Will assumed best meant best. Besides, they could stretch out their legs.
So it was that at precisely two-thirty, Max pulled up in front of Number Seven Berkeley Square in his best afternoon coat and hat, a basket of nibbles Harris had packed personally sitting on the seat beside him.
Max alighted and was promptly admitted. He waited in the drawing room the proper number of minutes, and then ten more, before anyone came to greet him. And even then, it was not the lady he had come to see.
It was Lady Alton.
“Lord Fontaine,” Romilla said, giving a cool nod as a greeting.
Max gave a deep bow and replied in kind.
“I should like to lay some ground rules before my daughters come downstairs.”
The plural of “daughters” caught Max’s interest, but he ignored it, wisely remaining silent.
“When you are in public with Evangeline, you are to be polite and attentive, but never overbearing. Never are you to attempt to even grasp her hand, beyond assisting her into and alighting from the carriage. Luckily, I will be on hand to keep things proper, and—”
“Excuse me, madam?” Max couldn’t help but interrupt. “You are attending the carriage ride today?”
“Yes, of course. Abigail will be riding with us as well. Not just today, either. A family member will be present at all times you and Evangeline are in public together—a maid will not suffice. What good is your appearing in each other’s company if it is not known to be sanctified by her family?” Romilla said, waving her hands about as she spoke, as if dismissing bothersome insects. Max’s teeth started to grind. Not for the first time, the niggling question echoed in his head: What had he gotten himself into?
“I thought, madam, that the purpose might have been the opportunity for Evangeline and I to get to know one another more intimately.”
Romilla’s face hardened. “Yes, well, I’d say you already know her intimately enough.”
Max had to admit, he had walked right into that one.
“And another thing, my Lord—I noticed your carriage in the drive. A lovely vehicle to be sure, and I’m very pleased it will seat us all—so Abigail and I will not have to follow in our carriage—but not your own, am I correct? Please from now on, would you be so kind as to bring your own carriage? To be seen under the crest of Longsbowe would go a good distance in solidifying to the public eye the respectability of your intent.”
“Madam, I do not have a carriage,” Max said with deceptive calm.
Romilla blinked. “Of course you do. Longsbowe House has quite the stableyard.”
“Lady Alton,” Max answered, “the Longsbowe stables belong to my father. I personally own one horse, and he is boarded near my lodgings, which I rent.”
Romilla placed her hands on her hips, frustrated. “Would your father begrudge you the use of his stables?”
“No, but—”
“Then next time you take us for a ride in the park, borrow a carriage from your father.”
“Respectfully, madam, I will not. My father and I—”
“Lord Fontaine!” Romilla interrupted. The frustration purpled her face, but she took a deep breath, calming herself before she spoke again.
“This is an unusual situation for us all,” she sighed, tired already. “I apologize if my instructions seem rude, but truth be told, we don’t know you, and what we know of you so far doesn’t necessarily make us inclined to trust you. Understand that everything,
everything
, that I am attempting to do today and in the future is to protect my daughter and family. Someday soon, I hope to be able to chat amiably with you, to respect you, even to like you. But for now, I have to ask you to bend a little and go along with what I ask.”
It was an honest appeal—something Max encountered all too rarely. He could appreciate that, he thought, even if he didn’t like what it asked him to do.
“I’m sure I’ll find a way to accommodate us both, ma’am,” Max said, meaning it, and bowing.
The hard lines of Romilla’s face broke into a smile for the first time that afternoon, just as the drawing room doors opened again, admitting the Alton sisters. Evangeline was in the lead, breathtakingly beautiful in a pink day dress and carriage coat of deeper rose, but her cheeks did not pick up the color. She was pale and kept her sparkling blue eyes downcast. If one didn’t know better, it seemed as if she were nervous, even scared.
Gail Alton stood behind her, closest to the door, her golden gaze direct, if expressionless. She was studying him, he realized. And Evangeline was avoiding him. Somehow, Max thought, those roles should be reversed.
Realizing perhaps he shouldn’t be staring, or if he did, he should limit his sightline to his intended, Max bowed, murmuring his greetings. Evangeline and Gail both curtsied, replying in kind. They rose.
And…no one said a word.
“Well,” Romilla broke the silence, perhaps a bit too brightly, “we should be off then. Evangeline, Lord Fontaine has the loveliest barouche awaiting us, and I cannot wait to be out in the fresh air today.”
Max glanced out the window. The sky was slate gray, and London air was rarely described as “fresh”—too much coal dust floated over the city. As he turned back, he caught a glimpse of Gail turning her eyes back from the window, too. He could guess that her thoughts were similar to his own, and a small wry smile escaped his lips.
They went into the foyer, and Max retrieved his articles from the butler, while the ladies pulled on their bonnets and gloves.
Suddenly, a small ripping noise broke the silence as they just stepped outside the door.
“Oh drat,” Evangeline’s sweet breathless voice filled the air. “It seems I rent my glove,” she said, a slight frown lining her brow.
“Oh dear,” Romilla sighed and went to examine the damaged garment. The seam connecting the thumb to the palm of the glove had split.
“At least it’s repairable. Run upstairs and put on another pair, quickly dear.”
“I’m afraid this is my last pair of white gloves”—Evangeline lowered her voice discreetly—“today is laundry day. The rest are in the wash.”
“Borrow some of Gail’s, then,” Romilla quickly suggested.
“I apologize, ma’am,” Gail interjected, “but I’m fresh out, too. Indeed, Mrs. Bibb made certain we had these for our outing today—but all our other things are being cleaned.”
“Besides,” Evangeline added, “Gail’s gloves are too large for me.”
Romilla sighed, and rolled her eyes to the heavens, as if bargaining with God to get her through the afternoon. “All right. Evangeline, come with me, I’ll find you something from my wardrobe. Lord Fontaine, Gail—we’ll be back shortly.” And they went back into the house, leaving Gail and Max alone on steps.
Shocked by the sudden advent of Gail’s sole company, Max slid his eyes to his companion, to gauge if her reaction was similar.
Gail, in turn, slid her eyes to Max.
Quickly, they both looked away.
It was acutely uncomfortable.
Max crossed his arms over his chest, looking around at the stone steps, the potted urns of early spring flowers that flanked the door, his shoes, anything was safer than Gail. Likewise, Gail kept her gaze straight ahead into the park square.
Well, someone would have to venture some sort of conversation, Max decided, and it might as well be him.
“What I don’t understand is why your stepmother is so adamant that I not be alone with your sister, and yet, here I stand, alone with you.”
“But we’re not alone,” she answered without any inflection.
“We’re not? I could have sworn only you and I stood here. Did you bring along an imaginary friend?” he said mockingly.
Gail slid him a wry glance, but kept her head straight. “Right now, there are a dozen eyes on us. The Pickerings in Number Eight are twitching back the curtains. Indeed, there are more people watching us now than were watching us at the ball.”
Max’s head came up involuntarily, immediately looking toward Number Eight, and saw the curtains mysteriously swing back into place as he turned his head.
“We’re being spied on?”
“I have it on good authority that in London spying is what people do,” Gail said, finally turning her head to look at him. A slight smile played at the corners of her mouth, as if she were mocking him—but for once, he didn’t mind. She seemed less frightening, less confrontational. She was just as tall, her back ramrod straight, and yet she was smaller somehow. Maybe because she wasn’t drunk or as mad as a soaking wet hen.
“Speaking of that night at the ball…” Max started. He looked to Gail who kept her face schooled in impassivity. He coughed and sputtered a little and started again. “Yes—ahem—while we’re on the subject…the ball.”
Gail froze—but as she really wasn’t moving to begin with, it was quite imperceptible.
“The ball,” she repeated.
“Far be it from me to instruct you on the ways of proper conduct…” Max said, in his most imperious tone—the one that always worked for his father.
“Yes, it would be very far from
you
to instruct
me
on proper conduct,” Gail noted dryly.
Max felt the heat rise to his cheeks and glowered to hide his blush.
“Perhaps you should take more care of who you have fetch your drinks—and being lured into dark corners and…and lecherous men with only one thing on their minds.”
Now was Gail’s turn to blush and glower.
He saw her eyes narrow, her shoulders hunch as if ready to pounce. He could see the scathing she would give him, held just behind her voice. But she held her tongue.
Max smirked. She was trying so hard to hold back, he realized, for the sake of propriety. And yet all she wanted to do was brain him with her reticule—her fingers twitched on the strings.
A little demon on his shoulder told him to prod her further.
“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”
As if those were the magic words that opened the gates to her opinion, Gail turned to him, eyes flashing, mouth quirked in a predatory twist. He was all too aware of the intensity of her golden gaze (and the little lurch of anticipation his stomach gave at encountering it) when he saw her pull back. Rein in.
Taking a deep breath, she spoke.
“Thank you.”
He blinked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, ‘Thank you.’ I was veering toward disaster that night, and you came to my rescue. You also held your tongue, when you could have told my parents or any number of your acquaintances, who would have no doubt delighted in a morsel of gossip. I appreciate your reticence. Given our previous encounter, I would have preferred anyone else in the world to witness my, er, state. However, it was you, Max. So I say thank you.”
Max leaned back against the door, all of the ready engagement he had brewing diffused. Disarmed.
Well, that was no fun.
“Oh,” he mumbled. “Don’t mention it.”
Silence took over for a moment as Max went back to crossing and uncrossing his arms and looking at his toes. He was just beginning to bear the quiet, leaning back against the door, wondering just how long it took to fetch a silly glove, when Gail opened her mouth.
“It does beg the question, however,” she said.
“What question?”
“What do
you
have to say for yourself?”
Max’s eyebrow went up. “I beg your pardon?”
“You keep begging my pardon, and really, I’m not inclined to give it. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“For what?”
“For being caught kissing
my
sister in
my
conservatory!” Gail hissed, trying not to be overheard. Max couldn’t see any potential eavesdroppers, but sound had the annoying habit of carrying to all too-interested ears.
“You are the most hypocritical man I ever met,” she continued. “You take me to task for being preyed upon and then go and prey upon my sister! You went from being the rescuer of one to the seducer of the other, in the span of a quarter hour!”