EXPECTATIONS
Max swirled the amber liquid in his glass and studied his cards as he contemplated his next move. He and a handful of London’s elites had defected from the ballroom in favor of gambling in the quiet of Viscount and Viscountess Darlington’s library.
Max wasn’t the sort to usually attend these events, but for his mother’s sake, made an occasional appearance.
“You are the Earl, after all,” she often pointed out—not knowing what a sore spot that was for him.
The crooning notes from the small orchestra playing in the adjacent room floated around him, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the young woman he’d met the previous afternoon was amongst the guests.
She was a lady, after all.
But then he dismissed the thought. If she was here, she would be husband hunting.
Max refused to be prey. Because any lady who set her sights on becoming the next Countess of Helton would be sorely disappointed.
“What’ll it be, Helton?” Benjamin Lancaster, the Marquess of Winterhope, nudged him.
Maxwell glanced down, having already forgotten the cards he’d been dealt. It wasn’t a particularly strong hand, nor was it unsalvageably weak—three of a kind, all sevens. Still.
“I fold.” He placed his cards face down. His head wasn’t in the game—best not to extend himself.
He leaned back and watched as Winterhope and a few others finished the hand, hearing distantly the grumbles and groans as Westcott won with a high two pair. Despite himself, Maxwell found his mind constantly returning to the things that woman—Lady Caroline—had said about his newspaper.
She was exaggerating. The mistakes could not be all that problematic. They certainly weren’t as ubiquitous as she claimed.
Max and his reporters thoroughly went over every single issue of the Gazette before they went to print, usually working into the early hours of the morning. He couldn’t imagine so many inaccuracies slipping past all of them. It was impossible. Absurd.
"You seem distracted, old man—more so than usual," Winterhope remarked, breaking Maxwell out of his reverie.
The marquess, who at seven and twenty was less than a year younger than Max, wore a turquoise jacket and a waistcoat embroidered with silver thread. Underneath those extravagantly colorful garments, he wore a pristine white linen shirt with more ruffles and lace than half the debutantes present.
Where Maxwell preferred comfort and utility, the marquess embraced the finery and lifestyle of nobility, to the point where he could almost be mistaken for a dandy. Winterhope had been born to hold the title, and did so unapologetically.
Max forced a smile. "Just tired, my friend. Busy day at the Gazette, you know."
The marquess laughed. "Ah, yes, the newspaper business. I can't imagine dealing with that every day. But you seem to have a passion for it."
“Oh, spare me, I’ve seen you with your horses.”
Winterhope nodded. “Touché.”
Maxwell chuffed, not wanting to delve deeper into his problems at the Gazette. It was, indeed, his passion, but also his responsibility. He’d made vast improvements on the production side, even going so far as to fund the development of potentially cutting-edge printing presses, massive machines fueled by steam engines that would eventually put out ten times the number of papers he could print now.
The print quality was better, making it easier to read, and these new machines could produce four times the number of copies as the old ones. Unfortunately, they struggled on the editorial side.
And Max didn’t know what the hell to do about it.
“How are things at Hope Downs?” he asked. Winterhope had recently opened one of England’s finest stables, along with an increasingly popular racetrack just outside of York.
Maxwell’s friend frowned. “According to my stablemaster, all is well, but I’d rather be there myself.”
“Duty calls, eh?” the recently wed baron pointed out. Both Westcott and Winterhope, unlike Max, took their obligations to parliament seriously. “I’ll take two.” He scratched the table, placing two cards face down.
“Indeed,” Winterhope agreed. But then he pinched his mouth shut.
As the three of them sometimes worked together fighting Mayfair’s less-than-upstanding residents, they usually discussed far more important matters, but never while in public. They limited those dealings to one of Malum’s private meeting rooms.
Malum, as in the Duke of Malum, who, despite his title, existed on the fringes of the ton—for having taken over the operations of a high-end brothel, the Domus Emporium. Not that other aristocrats didn’t patronize Malum’s luxurious establishment. In fact, the majority of Malum’s customers were members of the nobility. But they preferred for the rest of society to believe they lacked such carnal appetites.
