“Max!” she cried. “Max!”
He blinked, startled to realize that she’d had to call him several times. “Yes?”
“Before you see the Watch,” she said gesturing at him.
“What?”
“Max, look at yourself! You need to change your clothes before you go downstairs. Mama’s visitors are still there.”
He looked down at his blood-stained clothing. Was that what was important now? Changing his clothes instead of seeing to the dead Chinese official or finding out if the lady would have her feet amputated? Splotches of blood on his—
“You wore those clothes yesterday and it shows.”
No, that wasn’t in the least bit important now, but it was what had to be managed. Everything must be done in the proper order, after all. With a clipped jerk of his chin, he headed to his bedroom. Then he stopped and snapped his fingers at the nearest footman.
“Send another footman for Lord Benedict. Emphasize that it’s urgent.”
If Max had to deal with the Watch and his father, then he’d damn well have Lord Benedict standing beside him. And the man had better know something about Chinese politics.
“Right away,” Chiverton said with a bow while Max headed straight for his bedroom.
His valet met him the moment he entered the bedroom. “Quickly, my lord. Your clothes are ready, and I’ve got everything prepared for a shave as well.”
Of course, he did. Because clearing off his whiskers would magically save the day.
Max had barely stripped out of his jacket when he heard the front door open. The bellow carried through the air a moment later. “Where the devil is my idiot son?”
“I’m right here, Father, washing blood off my hands,” he muttered. Then he stretched his chin toward his valet. “Shave as quick as you can. Just don’t slice my throat.”
He’d leave that honor to his father.
Chapter Eight
Max rushed downthe stairs, his cheek still stinging from his valet’s rushed scrape. It wasn’t the man’s fault. Max had been pulling on a fresh shirt at the same moment, and that had not gone well. He prayed he wasn’t bleeding all over his attire.
Once on the main floor, he saw his father seated on the chair everyone called his throne. Emma was with him, valiantly trying to delay the man with sweets.
It wasn’t working. Though he pretended to listen to her babble on about Mama’s nerves, his attention was focused on the parlor door while he sat slapping his newspaper against his thigh. At least Christopher had made himself scarce. Max’s friend was the one man guaranteed to ignite father’s temper.
That wasn’t his father’s fault. Chris enjoyed constantly poking at the man’s politics. In truth, Chris liked poking humorless people until they broke, and in the duke’s case, that meant making fun of conservative politics. But now wasn’t the time to inflame the situation, and so Max was grateful for his friend’s absence.
Determined to keep everyone calm, Max sauntered into the parlor as if he’d just arrived from an afternoon’s stroll. “Hullo Father,” he said. “Thank you, Emmaline,” he added, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “You’re a treasure.”
“And don’t you forget it,” she said with an extra-wide glare. “Mama’s upstairs resting. The servants are deployed as instructed.”
He grinned, always finding it funny when she used military language.
“And in the library?”
“The Watch.”
Max nodded. “I will speak with them directly.”
No fool, their father bolted to his feet. “The Watch? What the devil—”
“Not something you should be concerned with,” Max said with a jaunty wave. “Come if you must”—he knew his father would—“but since you haven’t any idea what’s been going on, pray do let me handle it.”
His father harumphed. “I know a Chinese gentleman has expired in one of our bedrooms.”
