Max was red-facedand cursing long before he was interrupted. He’d thought to send his valet here—punishment for letting him out of the bedroom with a bleeding cut—but was too horrified by the task to give it to anyone else. And since he didn’t dare check their stable where everyone knew him and would talk about what he was doing, he’d gone down the street with an empty jar and a chisel to sneak into a less exalted one. With luck, no one would recognize him in a dark cloak and thick scarf.
He found the mold in a corner with the water trough. Layers of it, thick enough to scrape easily into the jar, but he’d had to maneuver himself into an effective position to catch the stuff. Even with gloves on, he didn’t relish rooting around on the ground for it after it had been scraped off.
“I thought I recognized that curse,” drawled a man’s voice from much too close.
Max jolted upright fast enough that he banged his head on a hanging bucket. It wasn’t very painful, but it was loud as the thing clattered against the wall, and he had to scramble to keep it from falling.
Then finally, when everything was settled, he found the courage to see who had caught him grubbing about in a public stable.
“Lord Benedict,” he said, dismay coloring his tone. “What are you doing here?”
The lanky man gave a lazy shrug. “I’m more interested in what you’re doing right there.”
Of course, he was. And given that Benedict was Max’s unofficial superior at the Foreign Office, Max had to answer somehow. They’d also been friends since Max’s first Season in London nearly a decade ago.
“I’d rather not say,” he grumbled as he glanced at the jar. He had several inches of loosely dropped mold. Surely that was enough. He looked around as he stepped out from behind the water trough. “This isn’t your usual haunt. Whyever would you stable your horse here?”
Benedict grinned. “I’d rather not say.”
The two exchanged a long look, both assessing the other for mutually shared secrets. Max was excruciatingly aware that Benedict could deduce all sorts of wildly incorrect things about what he was doing and so the risk to telling the truth was small. But he could also see a burden of care around his friend’s shoulders, a tightness in his movements that he could only discern because of their long companionship.
And while he was weighing all that, Benedict gave in. It wasn’t a lack of fortitude. The man could outwait a stone. It probably had to do with the nature of his secret.
“My father insists I beget an heir.”
Max groaned. Benedict would become an earl one day and was older than Max by six years. Max knew the pressure his family set on his shoulders. The pressure upon Benedict would likely be a great deal worse because of his increased age.
“I was going to propose to Kimberly this season,” Max said.
“That’s what you said last season.”
“I meant it this time.”
“Ummm.”
The two fell in step together as they left the stable. “Does your prospective bride live nearby?” Max asked.
“Not too far.”
“Do I know her?”
“Perhaps, though she doesn’t run with the Carlton House set.”
“I should hope not.”
Benedict smiled. “She does, however, have an unusual hobby. I was investigating it.”
Max slowed as he turned to the man. “Now you have me intrigued. What’s her name?”
“I won’t tell you any more. Not until I know why you’ve put dirt in a jar.”
“It’s not dirt, it’s mold. The Chinese princess asked for it, and I was too embarrassed to send my valet out for it.”
“You don’t say!”
He nodded. “I have studied some of their thoughts on medicine. It’s very different from ours.”
“Obviously.”
