Chapter Eighteen
It was another morning of frustration for Max, who continued to make the rounds in London.
He dropped casual questions to many of his acquaintances, always careful to avoid implying his concern for his life. But that worry was there…how could it not be? “Sorry, Max. I really don’t have a clue if there are any grudges against you out there,” said Lord Michael Northfield. “You know there’s always been a nasty minded group of scum who believe all of us…” he waved his hand around the gentlemen’s club in which this conversation was taking place… “All of us in Society should be eliminated.”
“Sad, but true,” agreed Max.
“Agitators, protestors, small groups who are angry for so many reasons.” Lord Michael folded his hands over his bounteous stomach.
“They might have good reasons,” Max murmured. “Ah well, thank you anyway.”
“How’s that sister of yours?”
“Well, thank you sir. Visiting Mowbray House at the moment, as a matter of fact.”
“Give her my best? I heard her play once. A magical experience.” Lord Michael beamed as a waiter brought a tray with two papers neatly rolled and a goblet of brandy. “Ah. Breakfast.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” Max gave a slight bow. “I shall pass along your regards to Grace.” He acknowledged the farewell nod, and then left, many thoughts running through his head.
Northfield did have a point. There had been more than a few incidents of unpleasantness, fights, property damage and so on, caused by those unsatisfied with their lot. Social conditions in London weren’t perfect for everyone. And he could imagine the anger that might build in a man’s breast as he tried to earn enough to feed his family, while seeing theTonparade by on a daily basis, spending more on their shoes than he made in a year.
But, in all fairness, sawing through the spokes of every member of Society who owned a carriage in the hopes that they’d be killed?
No. It just didn’t make sense.
He needed to find something a great deal more specific, something he still believed might well be aimed directly at him. After all, the one fact that haunted him incessantly was that it washiscarriage. Why not the one before or the one after? His was quite new…an old one would have been far more likely to suffer a broken wheel, and fewer questions would have been asked.
All those logical assumptions pointed his thoughts toward a personal vendetta.
But from whom? That was the question he could not, as yet, answer.
He returned just after noon, hoping for lunch and some time with his sister. As he turned his horse toward Mowbray House, he spent some time considering the interaction between Grace and Kitty.
The veil was off. So Grace had felt comfortable enough to reveal what she considered to be her devastation. He’d tried to explain that what she saw was a great deal worse than what the rest of the world saw.
He knew the mark she bore reminded her every day of pain, violence and a grievous error on her part that had, in her own mind, ruined her life.
Everyone else just saw a nasty scar.
But Kitty had managed to put her at her ease upon first meeting. Once again, Max found himself surprised at the response to a woman that Grace should, by all rights, have shunned. And yet he’d found the two of them chatting comfortably, sharing both ideas and wit. It had confounded him for a moment, but then he wondered if he was failing to give Kitty enough credit.
She was intelligent, without a doubt. Most of theTonwould never consider a brain might lurk behind her attractive countenance, and perhaps he’d fallen into that trap. But not now, now that he was learning about her. Her beauty was undeniable, but also unique, since in repose she was no more than the average beautiful woman. It was when she was engaged in anything—conversation, actions, decisions—that’s when she lit up like a Roman candle and surpassed the ordinary, revealing a unique and breathtaking glory.
That chin, when raised, indicated that she was a Ridlington to the core; determined, proud, and steadfast in her opinions. Her father might have been a bastard of the first order, but he had left a legacy in his offspring. And it showed.
Mowbray House was upon him before he realized it, and Max slid from the saddle, cold and a little depressed that he’d failed to make progress in his investigation.
Deery welcomed him and took his coat. “The ladies are in the library, sir. They’ve requested a light lunch be served there. Will you join them or…”
Max nodded. “That will be fine, Deery. As long as there’s a good fire. There’s still no sign of spring and the air’s damn cold.”
“Indeed, sir.” Deery vanished with his usual efficiency.
Pausing at the door of the library, Max smiled at the sounds of a lively discussion coming from within. He caught the words “absurd” and “Wellington”, and realized this was no debate on gowns or the Season. His sister and his mistress were involved in dissecting Wellington’s campaign. Bemused, he entered the fray.
“Good afternoon, ladies.”
“Max. Perfect timing.” Grace turned to him. “Could you please inform Kitty that her opinion of the Duke’s strategies at the battle of Conaghul are incorrect?”
