Kate Noble (6 page)

ON
the understanding that his future was decided and he had no choice but to comply with his father’s wishes, Maximillian, Viscount Fontaine, future Earl of Longsbowe, resigned himself to the inevitable and followed in the tradition of all distinguished gentlemen who found their hands tied.

He got very drunk.

After his father had hobbled his way to the door (he really was getting on in years, Max realized) and taken his crested carriage back to Grosvenor Square and the austere mansion of Longsbowe House, Max pounded his way back to his study, slamming the door. Harris visibly jolted at the sound, but gathered himself and went to fix a tray.

In the study, Max went furiously about righting his desk. He found the cabinet where Harris had stored his papers and books that had once littered the desktop, and ruthlessly put them back in their haphazard arrangement. When everything was in as close to order as he could recall, Max went to the sidebar and opened the heavy decanter of brandy.

Hours later, that was exactly where Will found Max, by the sidebar, with the decanter in hand. However, it was now nearly empty, and Max was no longer standing.

“Fontaine, where have you been? You never showed for supper at the club, never sent a note! I went ahead to the Reginalds’ only to find you hadn’t deigned to show there either. I had to leave Mathilda Cunningham, the most bewitching redhead to debut this year,” Will said.

Max was seated on the floor, his coat and cravat undone, his muddy riding boots still on, utter misery awash on his face.

“I’ve seen you in your cups before, but something tells me this is different.” Will squatted down next to his friend, who wobbled his head up to look through blurry eyes at the intruder.

“What gave it away?” he slurred.

A wry smile mixed with the concern on Will’s face. The blue eyes crinkled. “No one drinks alone except for the miserable, Fontaine.”

“That’s not true,” Max said, sloshing his brandy as he gestured. “Drunkards drink alone.”

“I don’t fancy too many of them are blissfully happy, do you?”

“Nope, don’t suppose they are,” Max sighed.

“Come on, stand up.” Will placed his hands under Max’s arms and lifted him to his feet. As Max outweighed Will by two stone of height and muscle, he nearly dropped him, but managed to hold on. Max, however, was unable to hold on to the brandy decanter, and its remaining contents splashed to the carpet below.

“Oh dear, my brandy. I should go back down and pick it up,” Max said, weaving.

“No!” Will exclaimed, tightening his grip on his friend’s shoulders. “Forget the brandy, I think Harris left you a tray by the door. You need something of more substance.”

Will sat Max on the comfortably worn couch in the library and fetched the tray. “See, there? A nice tea. We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

But Max was not paying attention. “I ruined the carpet. I ruin everything.”

Will stirred four spoonfuls of sugar into the now quite chilled tea. “That’s the talk of a man feeling sorry for himself. And utter rot, at that.”

Max’s blurred vision found his friend’s face. “Am I a bad person?” he asked, sincerity and sorrow ringing from his voice.

“Now
that’s
utter rot,” said Will, as he handed the tea to his friend and uncovered a tray of cold cheese and ham.

“He’s right, you know,” Max replied mournfully. “I don’t do anything. I ride my horse, I go to parties, and I play cards. But what good is that? I don’t run the estates, I don’t care to. I am worthless.”

“You are not worthless. So you attend parties and live in society. Surprisingly, most of our acquaintances do as well.”

“That’s not the whole of their lives. They do other things. You do.”

“Yes, but not everyone is like me. I have to be in trade. It’s just happy luck that I have a taste for it. Besides, you have your translation work.”

“Not enough money in it. And he knows it.”

“Now I understand what has gotten you into this state. Your father send you another letter, did he?” Will said, setting the tray of food in front of Max.

Max shook his head. “He came.”

The knife Will was holding clattered to the plate, but his face remained impassive, his jaw set. “He came? Here? Your father?”

“Yes, yes, and yes, my good man.” Max absently picked up a piece of meat and placed it down again. He was in no mood for food. All he desired was another drink.

“What the devil did he say to you?”

Max took a deep breath. “Among other things, that I must reform my way of life.”

“There is nothing wrong with your life.” Will sighed. “For some reason your father thinks you are a wastrel of the worst reputation, who gambles and drinks himself into oblivion. I happen to know you enjoy a very average reputation, don’t gamble more than a penny a point, and as for the drinking, well, not including tonight…In truth, I don’t really know why he’s always been so angry with you, and vice versa.”

“We…just never got on,” Max muttered, staring coldly into his teacup. And indeed, after Max had turned ten years old, this had been true. They had always argued. At Longsbowe Park, the Earl always tried to bind Max too tight. And as Max got older, the arguments broadened in topic and purpose.

The Earl never consented to see the future as any more than the next day. Whereas Max, stuck in a relic surrounded by relics and drilled in the ways of the past, craved his own life. So they’d fought. Sometimes it’s the littlest thing that can fracture a bond. The weight of one grievance piled on top of the last.

The fact was, the world moved forward, and Max’s father could never forgive his son for moving with it. And Max could never forgive the old man for so resolutely standing still.

“Am I…” Max coughed, nervously started again. “Am I simply waiting for him to die?”

Will sucked in his breath. “No,” he finally replied. “Don’t even think it.”

“He says I must get married in three months’ time, else I will be cut out of my inheritance and he’ll declare to the world I’m a bastard,” Max stated.

Will just stared at Max, unable to comprehend.

“Bloody hell,” Will managed to breathe out. “Where did you put that brandy?”

Some time later, after a great many half-started but never finished questions, Will finally put together a coherent sentence, and posed it to Max.

“It seems rather prophetic. We were just joking about this the other day.”

“I know. Fate has annoying timing,” Max answered, sobering up a bit. “It’s easy to joke about taking a wife. To actually have to do it is an entirely different thing altogether.”

“And not on your own terms,” Will finished for him.

“Yes, quite,” Max reasoned.

“You could always say that you don’t care about the stupid inheritance,” Will mused. “He’ll never do it. He can see you’ve lived without the money and don’t need it.”

Max looked at Will with a certain degree of cynicism.

“Yes, he will. I know my father. His skills at manipulation are ruthless and unsurpassed.” Then Max’s face softened, sarcasm giving way to worry. A brief thought flitted across his mind.
What is the old man afraid of? That I’ll disappoint him in this, too?

He let that question go with a shake of his head, saying to his friend, “There’s a decided difference between being cut off and being disinherited. I may not use his money, Holt, but the old man is right. I enjoy the life I lead partially because of the prospect of it. He takes that away, and he takes away my good name…” Max leaned his head against the paneling of his study wall. “I am no good at being anything but a gentleman. The truth of the matter is, I like it. I think about all the things I could do with the title—modernize Longsbowe Park, for once make a decent turn over on the crops, I could still dally with my work even…” Max looked thoughtful for a moment, and then, “He’s probably right, you know.”

Will glanced at Max. “Your father? How?”

“Maybe it is time to grow up. I’ve been avoiding stepping into his shoes for so long, I—”

“Never really found your own place?”

Max nodded silently. “Now I have to find a wife.”

“Well then,” Will replied, lifting his own cup of chilled tea. “A toast. To your future wife. Whoever she may be.”

“To my bride.” Max drained the remains of the too-sweet, too-cold tea. The taste had him grimacing.

To his bride. The search would begin in the morning.

THE
ball was a smashing success. Romilla could not be happier. Well, she could be, she supposed, if she had been able to secure a royal or two as guests, but her husband assured her that the court was far too busy while removed in Brighton to attend. They would have to content themselves with ordinary aristocrats. But other than that, Romilla was a very pleased hostess.

As she looked out across the ballroom, which was teeming with colored silks and black evening coats lit by a thousand crystalline candles, Romilla took a great sigh of relief. All of her guests were enthusiastic and happy, all of the best character. The musicians kept the dancing going, and she was certain no other hostess this Season would be able to boast of such a fine punch—from her mother’s own recipe. And if a whisper of the words
nouveau riche
floated through the air, Romilla was content to ignore those snobbish remarks in favor of seeing the better side of the snobbish guests who said them. After all, a person is only looked down upon until they are looked up to. And everyone had to admire the Alton ball—whether they wanted to or not.

All might not have turned out so well, Romilla thought. There had been a potential disaster just that morning while calling on Lady Charlbury, when Gail accidentally spilled tea on that lady’s favorite cat. Gail had apologized quite sincerely, but Lady Charlbury almost refused to attend the ball, and without her attendance, half of London would have considered the event not worth the effort. Lady Charlbury managed to be reclusive and yet quite ruled society in a way Romilla aspired to.

Luckily, Lady Charlbury accepted Gail’s apology. Romilla grudgingly gave the girl some respect for the way she handled the old woman. Gail had simply picked up the teapot while the cat and its owner were making a mewling fuss, and said, “I’m so sorry ma’am. At least now your cat won’t try to take tea with you again. Perhaps he’ll just settle for the cream.”

Lady Charlbury had blinked at the audacious girl. Romilla was afraid she had made the situation all the worse, but suddenly Lady Charlbury started to chuckle.

“Why young lady, I never looked at it that way! I’ve been trying to break him of the habit for years!”

“Did you know,” said Gail, sitting beside Lady Charlbury, “that some ancient cultures revered cats as equal to humans? Sometimes gods? I daresay they would have been honored to have had wise old Tom for tea.”

And from that point on, Lady Charlbury and Gail spent the morning thick as thieves, discussing cats throughout history. When Romilla and Gail were taking their leave, Lady Charlbury made a point of saying she was eagerly anticipating that evening’s ball. Once the door to the carriage had closed, Romilla made certain she paid the child a compliment.

“My dear, that was a very successful morning. I was impressed with your poise. I do hope it won’t escape you by nightfall. And for once your penchant for useless knowledge has come in handy!”

Gail and Evangeline shared a glance.

“Father always told us that everyone has their own special interests. To carry on a conversation all one needs to do is to find it,” Evangeline replied, smiling at her sister.

“How did you know her interest was her cats?” Romilla inquired.

“Well,” Gail drawled, “she does have six of them.”

“Ah. Now Gail,” Romilla said, as she settled herself against the cushions of the carriage seat, closing her eyes, “if only you could speak as well to men or people your own age. And mind you, most of them don’t care at all for young ladies who read overmuch. Lady Charlbury is an oddity, and charming old ladies are not what will get you married.”

Gail looked down at her lap and twisted her fingers about nervously. “I know,” she whispered.

Evangeline took hold of her sister’s hand. “Gail, I didn’t know that cats were sometimes considered gods. Was that in India?”

“Egypt. The Hindu in India revere cows,” Gail answered.

“Cows?” Romilla opened an eye. “I wonder if they eat a great deal of beef?”

NOW
that she had a moment to reflect, Romilla thought Gail was doing remarkably well at the ball that evening. Although she was not continually dancing, she had not tripped on or spilled anything; and she had not once said some wholly inappropriate remark that revealed her unusual upbringing. She even looked remarkably well in a gown of pale yellow silk. Romilla had even seen one gangly young gentleman eagerly fetch Gail a glass of punch. But nothing could compare to Evangeline’s success.

Radiant in a deceptively simple ivory silk and lace gown, Evangeline was completely surrounded by every eligible bachelor in attendance. From her position at the front of the ballroom, Romilla could see her beautiful stepdaughter quite clearly, and was immensely pleased.

Evangeline’s incomparable beauty, matched with her genuinely sweet and open personality, was a heady combination. Romilla had made certain that she was taken around to every society matron and made proper introductions. Aside from Lady Charlbury, who had already been introduced and so took the time to ask pointedly after Gail, every single one of the old biddies was absolutely charmed by Evangeline. After that, she was given carte blanche to be introduced to and dance with any man in attendance.

Needless to say, all of the gentlemen present were quite eager to make her acquaintance.

Romilla took her feathered fan and lightly tapped her husband on the arm.

“Well, my dear,” he said, offering his arm, “you seem to have pulled off the coup of the Season. I congratulate you.”

Romilla gave him a pretty smile. “Thank you, my husband. But I will give credit where it’s due. A great many of your political acquaintances are here tonight, and they lend a certain sparkle to the event.”

Sir Geoffrey grinned. “You and my daughters are all the sparkle I’ll ever need,” he said in hushed tones, causing a warm blush to flow over Romilla’s cheeks.

“I see Evangeline is making quite a few friends,” Sir Geoffrey remarked, turning his eyes back to the ballroom floor, nodding to a few parliamentary types as he did.

“She will make a great match,” Romilla whispered fervently, as if saying it enough would make it true.

“But where has Gail gotten off to?” Sir Geoffrey scanned the crowd. “Oh there she is, I see her. She is talking to young Ommersley.”

A sense of dread overcame Romilla. She turned and saw Gail on the far side of the ballroom, lecturing to the painfully thin young man with more Adam’s apple than head. “Ommersley? Who lives at Number Twenty? His family’s name is older than Moses! God spare us if she is speaking nonsense about ancient cultures or industrial technology or Wollstonecraft. His mother will make certain we’re never received in any house on the Square.”

Sir Geoffrey looked at his youngest daughter, took in her rapid speech, her companion’s rapt expression, and chuckled. “I doubt he’s even listening, my dear. Now come. We have greeted all our guests, the punch is absolutely delicious, and the musicians are playing a waltz. I request a dance with the best hostess in London.”

Romilla gave one last worried glance toward Gail and relaxed against her husband’s arm as he led her to the floor. Sometimes, she thought, as he spun her out with the other couples, she was so very happy to have married him.

SIR
Geoffrey was mistaken in one of his declarations. The host and hostess had not yet greeted all their guests, because a few were very late to arrive. Two, in fact.

Wearing his finest black evening dress, his dark hair ruthlessly pushed back from his face, Max’s hawk-like gaze scanned the throng that crowded the ballroom floor of Number Seven Berkeley Square.

“How are we acquainted with the host this time?” Max said, his green eyes continuing to scan the crowd.

“We met Sir Geoffrey in Vienna on our tour of the Continent, remember? He was attached to the British Consul’s office,” Will answered from beside Max, quite dashing in his own evening kit. “I received the invitation a few weeks ago, but not until your bride hunt began did I decide to attend.”

Max’s gaze narrowed. The “bride hunt,” as Will so aptly called it, had consumed the majority of Max’s time since it began in earnest more than two weeks ago. He had always been a mildly social creature, but since his father had issued the ultimatum, Max had been to more balls, musicales, afternoon teas, public assemblies at Almack’s, and theater performances than he cared to count. He had met numerous young ladies, some fresh out of the schoolroom, some in their second or third Seasons, some decidedly upon the shelf. They were variously short, tall, plump, thin, dark, fair, pleasant, pretty, plain, intelligent, and insipid. Max had been courteous to all of the above, happily flirting with the mamas as much as the daughters, working his way into the good graces of every eligible female in London. Suffice it to say, Max had found every single one of the girls he met lacking. He was fast growing weary of the hunt.

“I am fast growing weary of this hunt,” he remarked.

Will rolled his eyes. “You are the one who has rejected every eligible young lady out of hand! What was wrong with Miss Plimpton, dare I ask? I thought her remarkably good natured.”

Max shot his friend a hard look. “She had a gap between her two front teeth, and when she spoke there was whistling.”

“Well, then of course she is beneath your notice,” Will replied sarcastically. “Sir Geoffrey has two daughters, if I recall. Do let me know if either of them has a nose that doesn’t meet with your approval? Or chews her food too many times before swallowing?”

Max smirked. “Have you made the acquaintance of Sir Geoffrey’s daughters?”

Will shook his head. “When we were in Vienna, they were still in the schoolroom. And uh, I was otherwise occupied in Vienna, if you recall.”

“Oh, yes.
Otherwise occupied.
That’s a new term for it.”

Will shot him a look, but Max just squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “The misses Alton must be the only two young ladies in London we haven’t met.”

“Shall we seek them out, then? Who knows, you could fall madly in love with one.”

Max gave his friend a very cynical glare. “God help me if I do. Love doesn’t come into this bride hunt, Will. Come on, let’s find our hosts and get this over with.”

Max headed into the maddening crowd of Society’s beautiful people, with a smirking Will close at his heels.

GAIL
stood on the far side of the ballroom, close to the balcony doors, quite happily unaware of the latest arrivals to her and Evangeline’s debut ball. She had been so nervous before, but now Gail was quite certain she’d never been in such a good mood in her life.

It was working! Evangeline had given her explicit instructions before the ball began.

“Gail, darling,” she had said as Polly, the newly promoted ladies’ maid, worked a seed pearl into her elegant coiffure, “I want you to try an experiment tonight. I want you to try conversing with a gentleman for more than two minutes.”

“But—” Gail had started to say, but Evangeline cut her off with a wave of her hand.

“Give him your full attention for more than two minutes, and any gentleman will become taken with you, I promise.”

And now, Gail stood with young Lord Ommersley, cheerfully lecturing him on the presumptiveness of Lord Elgin, who had retrieved the friezes from right off the side of Greece’s Parthenon.

“And did he not realize that he is contributing to the global impression that England is nothing more than a conquering giant, pillaging every country we choose? Those marble friezes belong in Athens, they are part of their history! And if—”

“Miss Alton!” Lord Ommersley interrupted, his Adam’s apple bobbing on every cracking syllable. “I wonder, would you care to step out onto the balcony?”

Gail furrowed her brow. “The balcony? Why?”

Ommersley immediately backtracked. “Or, perhaps, a, er, a dance?”

“Dance? Oh, well, thank you, Lord Ommersley, but I’m afraid I don’t dance well. I mean, I danced the first few because it would be unseemly of me not to, this being a ball for Evie and me, but I am not very—”

“Well,” he interrupted, completely unfazed, “perhaps I can fetch you another glass of punch. After, maybe I can convince you otherwise.”

Gail glanced down at her cut glass cup and saw that it was drained to the very bottom.
How on earth had that happened?
she thought with a small frown. The punch was especially delicious tonight, but this was the third glass Ommersely had brought for her. Or was it the fourth? She shrugged.

Gail gave Ommersley a brilliant smile and handed him her cup. “Thank you ever so much. Another glass would be delightful.”

MAX
and Will located their hosts, quickly introducing themselves. Lady Alton was most pleased to have a guest with a name as old as Longsbowe. Sir Geoffrey was quite jovial in his greeting, shaking hands with both and, with a politician’s knack for names and faces, took care to remember Will and Max from their travels.

“Vienna, wasn’t it?” Sir Geoffrey voiced, smiling good-naturedly. “As I recall, Mr. Holt was particularly enamored of their opera house.”