At some point Max had begun thinking of Caroline by her given name. It suited her—cheerful, determined, and lovely.
But even his own mother had never called him just… “Max.”
Caroline’s shortening of his name ought to have irritated him.
It didn’t.
He endured his title only because, as long as his mother lived, he couldn’t abdicate. People would want to know why. They’d want to know the truth, and his mother would be devastated. No matter how many times he considered his predicament, he arrived at the same conclusion.
He shook his head. Nothing good could come from wasting his thoughts on something he had no control over.
What he did have control over was his paper—or he ought to, anyway. Which was why he’d made this morning’s visit. And it had been a satisfying visit.
Caroline had agreed to assist him in weeding out the traitor at the newspaper. He hadn’t lied when he’d said he trusted her.
So, why, as he walked away from the modest townhouse where she lived, didn’t he feel relief? Max stretched his shoulders.
An unsettling emotion followed him. And rather than head for his offices, he found himself striding in the direction of his mother’s house instead. She always appreciated a visit from her only son, but in addition to that, she might be in need of an escort to the Chaswick mansion for tonight’s ball.
“Ho there!”
A familiar voice caught Max from behind. He turned around to see Winterhope, dressed meticulously in a royal blue jacket, navy waistcoat, and perfectly creased trousers, increase his pace, jogging to catch up.
“Missed you on the row this morning,” the marquess said.
Normally Max would have met his associates for early morning sprints down Rotten Row, after finishing up with the paper and before going home to catch a few hours of sleep.
Winterhope shook his head, apparently guessing the reason for Max’s absence. “The mistakes have got to be deliberate,” he said. “The question is why.”
“I need to find out who first,” Max groused.
But then Winterhope’s gaze shifted down the street to the house Max had exited a few moments before. “Early business this side of town?” He cocked a brow.
Max held up a hand before the other man made any erroneous assumptions. “I am not courting her.”
“Try telling that to Lady Mann or her dragon of a sister. What were you thinking, singling one woman out at the musicale so soon after dancing with her last week? I know you don’t like covering that sort of thing in the Gazette, but that doesn’t mean other papers won’t do it.”
What had he been thinking? Max had been thinking about his paper, that was what. Although, at some point, more and more, his thoughts of the paper merged with images of Caroline… Which made no sense at all.
But Winterhope had a point. Max was going to have to be more careful where Lady Caroline Rutherford was concerned. “She’s an employee. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Winterhope’s expression remained skeptical.
“Never known you to dance with Wallace or send him smoldering glances from across the room.”
Max scowled at Winterhope, affronted. He absolutely, positively had not been sending Caroline smoldering glances. Such an accusation wasn’t even worth acknowledging. As for leading her in a dance…
“That’s because I’ve never employed a society writer before. She’s had a rough time of it, and I simply want to ensure that she’s comfortable.” Which reminded him of the ball that evening, and the reluctance on Caroline’s face while discussing her prospects there.
But that wasn’t his problem. Nor was her enjoyment.
Her attendance, on the other hand, as his employee, was his business. But he would not be dancing with her, nor would he be walking her about the room.
And he sure as hell wouldn’t be sending her any smoldering glances.
A SHIFT
As Caroline curtsied for what felt like the hundredth time, she shot a surreptitious glance to her left and then her right.
