It would work, she knew it would. Now all she had to do was convince her roguish friend to help her.
∞∞∞
On arriving in London, Max was perplexed to discover that the Prince Regent had already laid claim to his brother’s body. Prinny was insisting that Hugo be interred in a vault he’d purchased expressly for his nearest and dearest companions, secure in the belief that they’d all wish nothing more than to spend their eternity together.
Naturally, most of his most treasured associates had absolutely no desire to spend more than a few days in each other’s company let alone perpetuity but saw no reason to raise the issue with their overemotional Regent, being firmly of the opinion that Prinny would die long before any of them were in a position to use it. Unfortunately, that proved not to be the case for Hugo Wolverton.
To add insult to injury, the mausoleum was not even in London. Neither was it in Sussex.
It was in deuced Bath.
As his older brother and head of the Wolverton family, Max had respectfully requested the Prince relinquish his claim on Hugo’s body, but the Regent, seemingly beyond grief at the untimely death of such a beloved friend, would hear none of it. In the end, Max was simply too weary to argue. In truth, he really didn’t care where his bastard of a brother ended up. Indeed, there had been many moments since Hugo’s demise that the Marquess had wanted nothing more than to dump his lying, cheating brother’s earthly remains in the bloody Thames. Indeed, he might well have done if he’d ever managed to get his hands on the deuced body.
And to top it all, this was one problem he could not take to Queen Charlotte. Since their one meeting where Charlotte had wept in his embrace while declaring her son the most sentimental of men, Max had carefully avoided her, fearing he’d be unable to bite his tongue.
The Prince intended the internment to take place within the week, leaving Max very little time to investigate the whereabouts ofSepideh. So far, none of his brother’s acquaintances had been willing to talk about Hugo outside of the usual empty platitudes, and given that the Marquess was unable to ask the damned question outright, he decided to take a different tack and see whether the most notorious gossips at White’s would let anything slip after a few glasses of port.
Although a long-standing member, it wasn’t a club the Marquess frequented often. He had little in common with the dandies his brother favoured and was generally considered to be polite but dull by the majority of his peers. He even had the distinction of being described as, ‘strikingly attractive with immaculate dress sense but very little wit,’ by the Prince’s close friend Beau Brummell.
At the time, he’d given general opinion or indeed the setdown very little thought. Max had but a few close acquaintances to whom he habitually gave the time of day to and who might describe him entirely differently, but as a rule, he had no interest in what people thought of him.
However, after chasing his tail for four days, meeting dead end after dead end, he was running out of time.
If Brummel was surprised at the previously aloof Marquess of Guildford’s sudden congeniality, he did not show it. Merely narrowed his eyes, clearly wondering what exactly had prompted the sudden about-turn.
Inviting Max to join them at the favoured table in the window, the dandy expressed his condolences on Hugo’s death, declaring his passing, ‘a devastating loss,’ whilst dabbing an immaculate white linen kerchief at his suspiciously dry eyes.
‘Will you be at the funeral?’ the Marquess asked, refusing to be drawn into the chorus of accolades coming thick and fast.
‘Most assuredly,’ Brummell answered. ‘It is doubtful Prinny will be able to get through the ceremony without me. I have agreed to stay with the Earl of Bamford. He has felt the loss of Hugo more keenly than all of us, I fear.’ The dandy offered a calculated glance around at the men seated around him, two of whom shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
‘Indeed,’ Brummell went on as Max realised he had to be missing something. ‘As soon as Bamford heard about Hugo’s dreadful accident, he was so overcome with grief that he immediately withdrew to his house in Bath. A lucky coincidence - though not for your brother I concede - that Prinny decreed his dearest friend should be buried in that very same town.’
‘I was not aware that my brother was acquainted with Bamford,’ Max murmured carefully. ‘I did not think him part of the Regent’s set.’
Indeed, the Earl had not even made it onto Max’s list. Bamford was considerably older and had never moved in the same circles as the Marquess. On the few occasions their paths had crossed, Max remembered him as an odd-looking individual with an unhealthy interest in other people’s business. To Max’s knowledge, Hugo had never been particularly close to the Earl. Evidently that had changed while he’d been in Portugal.
‘Oh, they were inseparable in the months leading up to Hugo’s dreadful accident, always whispering together. In truth, I don’t think Prinny was entirely happy about it.’ Brummell quirked his eyebrows mockingly while his companions continued to sit like statues.
Max’s heart thudded against his chest. Did Bamford have possession of the diamond? He schooled his face into an expression of polite interest. ‘I would, of course, be most grateful for any anecdotes Lord Bamford might be able to offer,’ he smiled. ‘I was away for the last two years of Hugo’s life and am only now beginning to realise how much I missed.’
With a slight bow, he took his leave. Not wishing to draw further attention to himself by leaving immediately, he forced down a sudden surge of hope and reluctantly decided to stay another hour and indulge in a game of whist with two of his closest acquaintances. Both were familiar with the true nature of Max’s relationship with Hugo so did not waste time in empty platitudes but merely gripped his shoulder in support before buying him a drink. To his surprise Max enjoyed the evening. He’d known both men since Oxford, and one in particular was known to him from his time in Spain.
A year earlier, Gabriel Atwood, Viscount Northwood had been missing, presumed dead whilst on a covert mission at the behest of his late uncle, a well-respected Admiral in the Royal Navy. Fortunately, rumours of the Viscount’s demise were found to be entirely exaggerated, and he was apparently discovered, wounded unto death by the very same uncle who then gave his life to bring his nephew home.
Though Max was aware of the story, he'd been in Portugal at the time so had been unable to offer his condolences. Or indeed his congratulations. As since then, Northwood had married a vicar’s daughter, of all things, and now appeared to be related through marriage to both the Duke of Blackmore and the Earl of Ravenstone. Truly, the clergyman’s three daughters must needs be remarkable to have achieved such splendid matches, and Max sensed a story here that at some other time he would be delighted to wheedle out of his friend.
‘Penny for your thoughts Guildford,’ commented the Viscount when it became apparent that Max’s attention was not on his game.
Max smiled ruefully and threw down his cards. ‘Forgive me gentlemen,’ he sighed. ‘My mind is elsewhere this evening, delightful though your company is.’
‘Clearly,’ Mr Charles Lindley, their other companion responded drily.
‘What ails you Guildford - other than the sad news about your brother, naturally?’ Viscount Northwood quizzed. ‘I know you can be a surly bastard at the best of times, but tonight you seem unusually out of sorts. Is something else troubling you perchance?’
Max grimaced and shook his head. ‘This business with Prinny has undoubtedly unsettled me. While there was no love lost between me and Hugo, I had thought he’d be buried along with the rest of us in the family vault. But now…’ He shrugged.
‘Have you spoken with her majesty?’ asked Lindley. Both men were aware of the close relationship the Marquess shared with the monarch.
