Page 50 of How to Ruin a Rake

“Not on this occasion, sir.” Max considered what to say. “I was the object of a foolish prank, which got out of hand and resulted in damage to the carriage. I have told the person responsible that he is liable for all the repairs, and that I will expect him to pay for them.”

“Seeing as your friends are as irresponsible as you are, I’m sure that whoever it is will immediately agree to your demands.”

“I hope so; otherwise, I will be seeking your advice about how to take him to court.”

The duke went still.

Max decided to continue. “I must admit that I have grown rather tired of some of the antics of my particular friends. Sometimes they act like children.” Max held the duke’s gaze. “I feel that I am of an age where I need more to occupy my life.”

The duke sat back, his expression unreadable. “Do you, now.”

“I was wondering whether there is anything I can do to assist you with the estate,” Max blundered on.

“Such as?”

“You tell me. I am supposed to be your heir. Surely, I should know something about what I’m going to inherit.”

There was a long silence while the duke considered him. “You almost sound sincere.”

“I am. I know that you have many years ahead of you, but there must be something I can do?”

“I can’t decide whether this offer is genuine, or whether you have made such a mess of things that you are desperate for my approval.”

“Maybe it’s both,” Max suggested.

“I’ll think about it,” the duke finally said. “In the meantime, I wish you to be here for dinner every night to help me entertain my guests. If you are sincere in your claims, I’ll expect you to attend and behave with the utmost discretion and decorum.”

“What time would you like me to arrive?” Max asked.

“Six in the evening will be fine.” The duke looked down at the papers on his desk. “I’ll wish you a good day.”

Max bowed and left the room, aware of his usual sense of dissatisfaction whenever he had to deal with his father. At least he’d tried to be conciliatory and suggest that he wanted to learn. What his highly skeptical father would make of that, he had no idea, but Allegra would be proud of him.

As he went down the steps, he wondered how she was faring. She was a terrible stickler for the truth, so lying to her family about her whereabouts wouldn’t have been easy. He hoped for her sake that they accepted her version of events and let the matter lie. Now all he had to do was make sure Roberts’ absurd story about them eloping was laughed out of town, and all would be well.

If only he could find Roberts. …

He had no intention of taking Landon to court for the damages inflicted on his carriage. If he did, he might have to explain about the wager, and the last thing the Musgrove family needed was their family name being dragged into another scandal. If he didn’t receive the money, he’d get Stephen to write a suitably ducal letter to Landon and see if that threat did the trick.

He went back to his lodgings in a slightly better frame of mind and found Claude in his bedchamber brushing out an evening coat.

“Are you going riding this afternoon, my lord?” Claude inquired. “Or are you going to your club?”

“I’m going to my club,” Max said. “I have no need to change until dinner. I’m dining with my father, so I’ll need to leave before six.”

“How nice, my lord. A family gathering.” Claude smiled at him.

“Pick something conservative, will you? My father won’t appreciate any of my extremes of fashion.”

Claude’s face fell, but he quickly recovered. “I’ll turn you out looking like the perfect gentleman, my lord, don’t you worry about that.”

Max walked through to his parlor, where a stack of correspondence sat on the table. He went through the pile quickly to make sure there was nothing from either Lady Allegra or Roberts and then sat down to review everything more carefully.

There were a lot of invitations to balls, concerts, soirees, and the like, most of which he avoided because of the matchmaking mothers. He enjoyed music, but only when it was performed by professionals rather than aspiring duchesses-to-be. He set two invitations aside, threw the rest away, and remembered he had yet to read the letter from his mother.

After years of being the duke’s wife, her joyful nature had diminished, and she’d grown as cool and distant as her husband. She’d also espoused religious causes and spent most of her days doing good works, which was all well and good for those less fortunate, but made having a conversation with her somewhat trying. Her letters tended to be sermons about all his real and imagined failings. Max never knew quite how to reply to her and often didn’t bother.

He found the letter and sat down to read it. There was nothing in it he hadn’t heard a thousand times. He wasn’t good enough, he never would be, and he was on his way to Hell. Max resisted the urge to drink a bottle of brandy and go out and create his own little hell, because what good would that do?