“Both Amanda and I have tried to think of ways to help you in this endeavor.” Liz straightened and smoothed her skirts. “But all our thinking has come to naught. The best we can do for you this time is to stay out of your way and trust that you will take care.”
“Come.” Montague smoothed a strand of hair from his wife’s cheek. “I’ll show you to the carriage.” Taking her hand, he led her from the room. He whispered something in her ear that made her gasp and smile, and they disappeared down the hall.
Summerset snorted. “The duchess must have—”
“Take care what you say of my sister-in-law,” Rothchild said mildly. “I’d hate to have to kill you defending her honor.”
“—must have a spine of steel to train Montague so well.” Summerset glared at his friend. “I’m quite fond of the duchess and wouldn’t insult her, as you damn well know.”
Max rubbed his forehead and dropped into a chair. He wanted nothing more than to climb into bed and forget the past twenty-four hours. “Gentlemen, can you please shut your traps? I’d prefer to focus on the task ahead and not have to listen to your incessant bickering.” Moderating the level of his voice, he continued. “Let’s go over the plan one more time.”
“What’s to plan?” Summerset dropped onto the chair next to Max, draping a leg over the armrest. “You go meet with Zed. We try to take out his men before they take you out. Simple.” He nudged Max’s thigh with the toe of his boot. “I’d be much more interested in discussing what’s put your smallclothes in a bunch.”
Montague came back into the room and paused mid-stride. “I fear I’ve come into this conversation at an inopportune moment.”
Rothchild waved a scone at Max. “Sutton is acting like a grumpy bear. Seems to be trying to outdo Dunkeld in the man’s absence.” He took a bite and jabbed the half-eaten pastry at Summerset. “That one is using his extraordinary gift with words to try to learn why Max is upset.”
“Ah.” Montague poured himself a cup of tea. “I can’t imagine it’s easy knowing you will be walking into a trap in a couple of hours. That could account for Sutton’s mood.”
Max sat up straight. “Are you saying I’m afraid?”
“He is getting up there in years,” Rothchild said. “I hear a man starts to feel it in his bones. That could be the problem.”
“I’m a year younger than you!” Max threw himself back in his seat. Truly, his friends were all arseholes.
“You’re both wrong.” Lacing his fingers together, Summerset rested his hands on his stomach, twirling his thumbs. “It’s because of a woman, or a lack thereof. I can tell when someone isn’t satisfied. An excess of vigor that hasn’t been spent can lead a man to snap at his bosom-friends over the smallest of jests.”
Max remained silent. Fuckwits. Each and every one of them.
Three faces swiveled in his direction. Too late, he realized his mistake.
“So that’s it then. Your manager.” Montague raised a golden eyebrow. “Has a rift developed between the two of you?”
A rift. More like a goddamned canyon. “Nothing has developed between us.”
Summerset snorted. “It took you long enough to realize that your Mrs. Bonner didn’t have what is needed to keep you happy. How could a clock-maker’s wife feed your unique appetite? After we apprehend Zed, I’ll take you out, let our little arsonist play—”
“Enough!” Max dug his fingers into the upholstered fabric of the armrest, anything to keep them from throttling his friend of a decade. “She fed me fine.” Perfectly.
“What happened?” Montague asked. He poured a glass of something stronger than tea and handed it to Max.
He downed the whiskey, enjoying the burn along his throat. It distracted him from the pain squeezing his chest. Leaning his head back, he stared at the ceiling. “What I say here goes no further.” He didn’t need to see his friends nod to know they would agree. “You all know I was working for Liverpool when I set fire to the shop next to Colleen’s.”
“Guilt seems like a poor reason to start a relationship with a woman,” Rothchild said.
Max snapped his gaze down but saw no judgment in Rothchild’s eyes. “Perhaps it was. But that point is moot. For it isn’t my guilt that is the issue. It’s hers. She confessed to me that when she saw her neighbor’s shop burning, she accidentally knocked over a lamp, setting fire to her own. She’s responsible for her husband’s death.”
He stared into his empty glass. How the guilt must have wracked her. Kept her up at night as it had him. He didn’t know how he’d missed it. All the signs were there. Her reluctance to wear the clothes he bought for her. How she always fingered that damn watch, her link to her husband. For a man who prided himself on reading people, the lapse was unforgivable.
Summerset pursed his lips. “If it was an accident, what is she guilty of?”
“Of keeping the truth from me.” Of not being the woman he’d thought she was.
“What are you going to do?” Montague asked.
“Nothing.”
“You will continue your affair?” Rothchild nodded. “Good for you.”
