“On the contrary, Lord Christopher uses humor to distract from his desperate circumstances. I, on the other hand, am pleased as punch that you are the focal point of royal attention. It allows me to finish off Napoleon without interference. Pray continue to be as fascinating a diversion as possible. It makes my life much more manageable.”
“So happy to serve,” Max drawled, his tone heavy with sarcasm.
“I know you are,” Benedict said quietly, “but you need to expand your understanding of where and how you serve. London is as much a battlefield as France.”
There was a message here. An obvious one, to be honest, but Max couldn’t accept it. “I could make a difference on a battlefield.”
“Of course, you could, but you are being asked to serve here. And now I should make myself scarce.” They had reached the edge of Max’s property quickly, having used the servants’ path up to the back door.
“What? You can’t abandon me with Prinny. He’s here to demand answers I don’t have. The London office of the East India Company was barely helpful, and there hasn’t been enough time to hear from their offices in China.”
“Excellent!” Lord Benedict clapped his hands. “That’s good diplomatic training. You cannot imagine the number of times I’ve had to appease important people before I’ve any of the proper information.”
“But—”
“Best hurry. Prinny’s carriage has nearly arrived.”
Indeed yes, the Prince Regent’s ornate conveyance was nearly at Max’s front door. Christopher, on the other hand, had apparently leaped off early and was rushing up the walkway with a harried look on his face. Damn man ought to be panicked bringing a royal visit to his home without the slightest word of warning.
“Please,” Max begged Benedict. “Distract him for a moment while I get…” Max looked around. Damn it, where had Benedict gone? A hurried scan of the back path showed the man well out of earshot, his long stride covering the distance faster than some horses.
“Bloody perfect,” Max groaned, then he rushed up to the house and shouldered his way into the kitchen.
It was a madhouse. Obviously, the staff had seen their royal visitor coming, but no one had taken charge.
“Where’s Emmaline?” he asked the nearest footman.
“My lord! We d-didn’t know… How’d y-you…”
“Where’s Chiverton?”
“Right here, my lord,” came a voice from the cellar as the man in question topped the stairs. He looked harried and annoyed.
“Who is there to greet the prince? Under no circumstances is he to be allowed above stairs.”
“Er, well, as to that, my lord, I’m not exactly sure.”
Max gaped as his normally unflappable butler. “About what?”
“Thomas is above stairs. I’m afraid I was in the wine cellar at the time.”
“You weren’t at your post for a royal visit?” Good God, what was happening? Not only his life but his entire staff was falling apart. Chiverton started to answer, but Max held up his hand. “Never mind. Who’s home? Has Mama been informed? Is she even here?” He thought she was going on calls today, but he couldn’t remember.
“I’m afraid I’m not sure, my lord.” For all that his tone was even, the man was clearly sweating. “I was below stairs for—”
“A very long time, apparently. Very well, get upstairs. Serve the prince some good wine and tarts.” He pointed to a tray cooling in the corner. “Give me fifteen minutes. I can’t greet the prince dressed like this.”
He’d been tromping around London asking after some midwife that was of interest to Lord Benedict. The man often gave him strange tasks that had diplomatic implications. Max had once been sent to discover the parentage of a servant girl only to discover that she was a Russian spy. He was never told the true reason until afterwards, and this was no different. Fortunately, midwife Betty Gill did not appear to be a foreign spy, though she did have a mysterious past.
In any event, he couldn’t think about that now. He needed to change out of his tromping-about-London clothes and into something more appropriate to a royal visit.
“Right away, my lord,” Chiverton said before snapping his fingers at the stammering footman. The servants disappeared up the front stairs while Max climbed up the back. But in this he was stopped. The moment he stepped into the hallway, he came face to face with the prince regent.
“Your Majesty!” he cried, startled. Damnation the man was already upstairs! He must have bowled past the young footman and headed straight upstairs. Behind him, Chris was babbling as he clearly tried to slow down the royal.
“Oh good,” Christopher cried. “Max is here. What are you wearing? I’d like a glass of good wine. You must want one too, Your Majesty. It was a long drive from Carlton House. And I hear that Max’s chef is a wonder with tea cakes—”
“Tarts,” Max corrected.
