Chapter One
“What was thatabout?”
Maximillian Palo, Earl of Artanges, tried to make his voice sound casual as he pried into the prince regent’s private affairs. Spying on Prinny was always difficult, but tonight the ruler was being especially grumpy.
“You know Lord Benedict,” Prinny said with a dismissive snap of his wrist. “Always something. It can wait until tomorrow.” He plucked a candied plum off a nearby tray and ate it with sloppy adoration.
They were having a casual evening in the prince’s private house, and the royal clearly had no interest in any affairs of state. Nevertheless, a messenger had appeared and insisted on delivering a message straight into Prinny’s hand. It was only because Max was near enough to recognize Lord Benedict’s handwriting that he became interested.
Lord Benedict never bothered Prinny with anything except urgent matters. Add that Max had caught a single word writ large and he couldn’t stop himself from poking further. That word had caught his attention as a boy when his uncle had returned from the far east with treasures of silk, tobacco, and a silver filigree box so fine that the best English silversmiths could not begin to imitate the design.
That word had settled deep into his bones later when a school friend ventured to the same land and come back with exotic—and erotic—tales of the far away country. Thanks toReggie’s stories, Max’s interest in China blossomed into a secret obsession. He couldn’t go there himself. His responsibilities in England prevented it. But oh, he was fascinated by everything that word whispered.
China.
Lord Benedict had sent a message about China, and the damned regent was too lazy to pay any attention to it.
“Is something happening at the Foreign Office?” Max pressed. That’s where Benedict worked as second in command to Lord Castlereagh. Together they formed the bulk of England’s relationships with every other country on the planet, including those they were at war with. “Has Napoleon done something annoying?”
Max already knew that wasn’t the case. Castlereagh wanted Prinny as far away as possible from the war with Napoleon. Indeed, Max’s orders—or strong suggestion from Castlereagh and Benedict both—were to interest the Regent in anythingexceptthe war effort. Which suited Max fine because his interest was fixed firmly on the Orient.
No fool, Prinny snorted. “As if he would message me anything about that. No, this is about an unofficial delegation.”
The damned man was being coy now just to toy with Max. He knew of Max’s interest. “A delegation from China, perhaps?” Max pressed.
“Unofficial. Of no importance. I am free to ignore them.”
“Ignore them!” Max exclaimed, knowing now that the prince was indeed playing with him. Prinny had nearly as much interest in Chinoiserie as Max did. It was one of the few things that created their friendship, though their conversations were mostly about gossip and politics, in that order.
“I suppose,” Prinny drawled, “that I could allow you to be here when I receive them.” He gestured vaguely at the throne room. “Tomorrow.”
“When?”
“Who knows when the ships come in? Could be morning, could be during supper.” Prinny grinned. “You’ll just have to stay through the night to make sure to be here.”
Max groaned, knowing he was incapable of resisting the lure. Even if he was excruciatingly tired of carousing until all hours with the prince. Even if he was bored to tears with the courtesans that constantly tried to attract him with overblown airs. And even if another morning with a sore head was going to be death of him. The prince wanted his company and was willing to bribe him with an interesting bit of Chinoiserie to keep him there all night.
“Very well,” Max said as he gestured to his empty glass. “How would you like to pass the time until then?”
Prinny grinned, knowing he had won. “I think we should discuss the idiocy of your father’s latest speech in Parliament.”
Max chuckled. Attacking the Tory party was one of Prinny’s favorite pastimes. “I cannot in good conscious entertain you with tales of my father’s stodgy, boring, ridiculously old-fashioned conservatism. He is, after all, my father and a highly respected duke.”
“Indulge me.”
Max did. It was the easiest thing he’d done all day. Unfortunately, it continued nearly to dawn.
*
Gongggggggg.
Max jolted awake, his head pounding and his eyes gritty.
“Bloody hell,” moaned a voice near him.
Max needed to squint to see his oldest friend Christopher, the Earl of Bloomsbrook, tightened into a ball on the nearest settee. The man slept just like he had twenty years ago whenthey’d both arrived at Eton with knobby knees and a mutual terror of the aggressive older boys. Last night, his friend had joined the party after midnight and was now looking worse for the wear. He was gray beneath his straw-like hair which stuck out in every direction.
“Was that a gong?” the man rasped.
