Chapter Fifteen
London was, as London was wont to do, buzzing with the lateston dits, both of which revolved around the Ridlingtons.
“Isn’t it terrible,” they whispered “That poor Miller-James. Dead, I heard. Head smashed to smithereens, I heard.”
“She lured him away,” more whispers, “another dreadful Ridlington. And of course you heard about her sister…well, I never!”
Max ignored it all. He had earned his fair share of gossip years ago, was now wealthy enough to survive much more than a wave of murmurs behind fans, and knew that within the week there would be another exciting scandal to render this week’s tattle quite stale in nature and barely worth discussing.
Such was the way of Society. Having the status to rise to the top of the heap, which he had done, he realized he was developing a distaste for it all. His friends—true friends—were few, and mostly kept to themselves. It would seem they all shared a mutual aversion to theTon.
Tapping on the door of one such friend, after dismounting in front of a quiet establishment not far from Whitehall, he was relieved to be admitted with a warm welcome from the ancient butler.
“Morris, you old charmer. Still kicking then?” He delivered his coat and hat to the elderly man with the shock of white hair.
“Not kicking so much these days, master Max, but his Lordship refuses to let me retire. So here I am, still charming as ever.”
Max laughed at the dry tones. “And with a much quicker wit than Sir Peregrine, too.”
Morris bowed at the compliment. “You are too kind, sir. You’ll find Sir Peregrine in the library…”
“I know the way. Thank you.”
Max strolled down the wide corridor leading from the hallway toward the gardens. At the end was a huge arched window, showing little but rain and wet shrubbery at the moment. He stopped at a door a few feet from the end and knocked, smiling at the sharp command to “enter”.
“What, no brandy?” Max grinned as he took in the tableau of his friend seated by a roaring fire with half a dozen books scattered all over the place.
“Hullo Max,” Peregrine Hawkesbury turned his head casually. “I might have known you’d turn up today. Doing all kinds of terrible things, my housekeeper tells me.”
“Yes, yes I am,” agreed Max. “Someone has to provide gossip for the old biddies.” He strolled to the other fireside chair, tossed a book from the seat to the couch, and sat.
“Oh, was that the Broadbent Treatise on Obsession, by any chance?”
Max leaned over and looked at the book. “No. It’s the Dibden Fathers’ Discussion of Unholy Manifestations.”
“Never mind then.” Sir Peregrine closed the book on his lap. “So do tell me what brings you here?”
“I need your help, Perry.”
The other man blinked in surprise. “Good God. That’s unusual.” He smirked. “Out of funds, are we?”
Max rolled his eyes. “No. My financial affairs are in good heart. And will continue to remain so, even with the whole business in Europe turning the stick market into a ride on a three-wheeled phaeton.”
That led to an animated discussion on Wellington, Napoleon, whether Blucher would be able to lead his Prussians in support of the Duke, and other matters so dearly beloved of gentlemen when with similarly-minded companions.
Eventually it worked back around to the original statement. “So how can I help you?” asked Peregrine.
“Tell me what you know of the old Baron Ridlington. The one who died a couple of years ago now. Jack? Jack something?”
Peregrine looked interested. “Really? That family making an impression?”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Since I’ve one daughter living at my house at the moment, and the other was nearly killed in my carriage, I do feel it incumbent to learn more of the family…”
Peregrine nodded. “Point well made.” He leaned back and crossed his legs, staring at the fire. “I don’t think I ever met him, but I know m’father did. Used to pop down to Southampton, meet up with Ridlington and do a spot of fishing I think. On the River Test.” He steepled his fingertips and rested his chin on them while he thought.
Max remained silent. He knew Perry was a man who liked to think before he spoke. It was a pertinent belief that others would do well to emulate.
“I never got the feeling m’father actually liked the man. And passing comments I recall from my Cambridge days make me think he was a cold-blooded piece of work. Up in town within a week of his first wife’s death, looking for another one. That sort of thing. Not smart with the financial end of the estate, that’s for sure. In fact, there were several people I know who were ready to bid on the property when he died. Lucky the oldest son was a great deal smarter than his father.”
