Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance) (25 page)

Max felt confused, as though he'd wandered into some sort of stage farce and didn't know his lines. "I beg your pardon?"

"She is not supposed to leave her bed, poor thing, though I cannot imagine Fanny obeying such an order."

What the devil? Was Fanny ill? He bent over the prone figure of his dear friend and touched a hand to her bright silver hair.

"Let us do what we can to revive her. Max, do you have a handkerchief?"

"Yes, of course." He absently tugged at his waistcoat pocket, retrieved the handkerchief, and handed it out to Rosalind, his eyes never leaving Fanny. If she was ill, why had she not told him?

"You dropped something, Max."

"What?"

"Never mind. Here, I have dampened the cloth with a bit of water from the drinks tray. Perhaps we can cool her face with it." Rosalind knelt beside Max and dabbed at Fanny's brow with the cool, wet doth.

Fanny's eyes fluttered and she gave a shuddery moan that bordered on a wail. Max studied her with growing suspicion.

"Aunt Fanny, are you able to sit up?" Rosalind asked. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Rosalind? Is that you?"

Fanny's voice was so thin and pitiful, Max had to turn away or burst out laughing. What a performance! Worthy of Mrs. Siddons. Max would have to scold her later for giving him such a scare. He knew exactly what she was up to now, and by Jove, it had worked.

Rosalind was here.

No longer concerned for his crafty old friend, Max was able to stand back and enjoy the sight of Rosalind. Rosie. Whoever the hell she was. She looked like Rosalind to him, fashionably dressed in a pelisse of green striped sarsnet and a Parisian bonnet trimmed on the edges in the same fabric. An improvement over the shapeless brown sack she'd been wearing at Wycombe.

She fussed with Fanny, who gave her niece a great deal of trouble as she was being lifted to a sitting position, groaning all the while. Rosalind's brow was furrowed in concern and she arranged a cushion at Fanny's back.

"You had better call Stokes," Fanny said in a strained little whine. "She can help me to my room. But please hurry. I feel so weak"

Careful Fanny. Doing it a bit too strong.

"Of course, aunt. I will go get Stokes myself. You just sit quietly. Max will look after you." She rose to her feet in a single fluid movement that reminded Max of other more sensual movements he'd witnessed. He became aware of a tightness in his groin.

When Rosalind had gone, Max closed the doors and turned to Fanny. "One more mournful moan, my dear, and you will give yourself away."

Fanny opened one eye and her lips began to twitch. "Hush, boy. I got her here. The rest is up to you. Don't botch it this time."

Max leaned down to kiss her flushed and very healthy cheek. "Thank you, my dear. I will do my best. I hope Stokes is in on the game?"

Before he could say more, Rosalind and Stokes, Fanny's maid, came bustling into the room. Max stepped aside to allow them to fret and fuss over Fanny. Stokes, obviously in Fanny's confidence regarding this charade, took charge and directed the complicated operation of getting Fanny to her feet. With Rosalind under one arm and Stokes under the other, they managed to propel Fanny toward the door.

"I'll take her from here, miss," Stokes said. "When she has one of these spells, she don't like anyone but me around her. I know what to do. You just wait down here until I get her settled in bed."

"Are you certain I can't help?" Rosalind asked.

"There's no need," Stokes said.

"Thank you, Rosalind," Fanny said in a weak voice. "I am so pleased you are here. Come up later and see me.

With Fanny leaning heavily on Stokes, the two women made their slow progress up the stairs.

Max gestured for Rosalind to join him in the drawing room. With concerned glances over her shoulder, she kept an eye on Fanny until she was out of sight beyond the landing. It was only then that she was able to concentrate her attention on Max. He noted a slight flush to her cheeks as she entered the room and took a seat.

"I am surprised to see you, Rosalind."

"I daresay you are."

"What brings you back to town? Fanny's illness?"

"Yes, of course. I came as soon as I heard. But, Max, what exactly is wrong with her, do you know? She was not ill when I left."

"I believe it is to do with her lungs," he extemporized. "Limited wind, or some such thing."

"Oh. Papa thought it might be her heart again."

"Well, um, the heart may be involved in it, too. The heart and the lungs. That Leighton fellow keeps a tight lip. Never know for sure unless he tells you right out, which he won't since I'm no relation to Fanny."

"Then perhaps he will tell me. I hope so. I'm so concerned for her."

"It is good to see you, Rosalind. Are you well?"

"Yes, thank you."

"And your family, your father?"

"Very well, thank you."

"You must be sure to give the twins my regrets for not staying long enough to teach them to tie the oriental."

"They were... disappointed."

"Well. It was best that I left, under the circumstances."

"Yes. I'm sorry, Max."

He shrugged. "I am trying to live with it."

"This is very awkward," she said. "Perhaps I should just go upstairs and see to Fanny." She rose and moved toward the doors.

"No!" Fanny would have his head if Rosalind came upstairs too soon, before she was laid out like the proper invalid. "Stokes will let you know when you can see her. Look, if it makes you uncomfortable to have me here, I shall take my leave. Do you suppose we could have a talk, you and me, before you go back to Devon?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps. Well, that is something, anyway. Goodbye, Rosalind. Rosie."

*          *          *

When she heard the front door close, Rosie let out her breath with a whoosh. This was going to be difficult. With Fanny's peculiar illness and Max's unnerving proximity, she did not know how she would manage.

To keep her mind on something besides Max and those deep brown eyes, she rang for a footman and set about settling in again. Her bandboxes had already been placed in the bedchamber she'd used before. It was almost as though she'd never left.

Violet was busy arranging clothes in the wardrobe when Rosie entered. "Oh, miss. You ain't even taken off your spencer and hat."

"Oh." She'd been so distracted, first by Fanny and then by Max, she had not even recalled she was still wearing her traveling gear. "How silly of me. Here, take this bonnet, Violet. And I'll just—hold on, what's this?" Something crinkled in the pocket of her skirt. "Oh." It was the paper that had dropped from Max's waistcoat when he pulled out his handkerchief. Rosie had stuffed it in her own pocket and, in the urgency of the moment, forgot about it.

It would make for a good excuse to see him again, though she knew that was a bad idea. Rosie was about to lay the paper down on her dressing table, when she noticed a great scrawling M at the bottom of the sheet. She'd never before seen Max's handwriting that she could recall, but she was not surprised to discover he wrote his initial with a flourish.

She wondered what the note was. It was a small sheet, not a standard size, and folded in half. Why would he be keeping a note from himself? It was none of her business. She put the paper on the table, determined not to succumb to curiosity.

But that big M kept winking at her. Good heavens, it was just a little note, probably nothing of any importance. What harm would it do to have a little peek? Before her conscience could interfere, Rosie picked up the note and unfolded it. It took only an instant to scan the words, and another for the cry to escape her lips.

Life is a bore.

I no longer have a reason to stay alive.

So I won't. Good-bye world.

—M

No! Please God, no. He had said he had been planning to commit suicide, but she hadn't believed him. He said she made him want to live again. But then she rejected him. Did he no longer want to live because she turned him down? Oh God, had she brought him to this?

"Miss? Miss? What is it?" Violet was staring at her wild-eyed.

"I have to go," Rosie said absently. "I have to go."

She made her way down the stairs and out the front door before she became muddled. She'd only been there once and it was dark. Where was his house?

She couldn't think. Her mind was in a whirl. If Max was going to kill himself, it was all her fault. She couldn't bear it. Oh God, she couldn't bear it.

Where the devil was his house?

Mount Street. She remembered him saying it as they stood outside the hackney.
We're on Mount Street, just a few steps from Berkeley Square.
But which way? She looked around frantically. Lansdown House stood at the bottom of the square, so she headed in the opposite direction and soon ran into the junction of Davies and Mount streets.

She practically ran up Mount Street, but could not recall the number, or any detail of the outside of the house. She hadn't been paying attention. She hadn't taken her eyes off Max. And when she'd sneaked out before dawn, she'd been too filled with the wonder of his lovemaking to notice the house number.

She could not make herself believe that the man who'd made such sweet love to her was going to end his life. Had she hurt him that badly? Had he loved her that much? Was he going to kill himself all because she rejected him?

No, it could not be true. Please, God, make it not true. If only she hadn't been so bloody stubborn, so unwilling to believe that he might really love
her
and not some phantom. If only she hadn't been so afraid of losing him that she wouldn't allow herself to take him. If only... if only...

She had to find his house, but not a single one looked familiar. She stopped a gentleman walking by and asked if he knew which number was Mr. Davenant's house. He did not know, and gave her a scornful look for asking such a thing.

Finally, she simply went up the steps of a random house and rang the bell. A pretty parlor maid answered. Rosie tried to keep her voice even and not betray the anxiety—the panic—that held her body in its grip.

"I am sorry to trouble you, but I am supposed to meet my aunt at Mr. Davenant's, and I have lost the direction. I know it is near here somewhere. Can you tell me which number is his?"

"Yes, miss. That'd be Number Fifteen, two doors down."

Rosie thanked her and hurried to Max's house.

"Where is Max?" she demanded the instant the butler had opened the door.

"I beg your pardon, miss," he said. "If you would like to come inside, I will see if Mr. Davenant is at home."

"No, there is no time. I know the way." And she did. She remembered quite clearly being carried up this staircase and into Max's bedchamber. She brushed by the horrified butler and dashed up the stairs.

"Miss? Miss, wait!"

But she could not wait. It might be too late.

Second door on the right. It was closed. She turned the handle and swung it open.

Max stood shirtless before a bowl of water. He held a long-handled razor to his throat.

"No, Max!"

*          *          *

Max had time to do no more than look up before Rosalind had flung herself upon him with the force of a charging elephant, knocked him to the ground, and batted away the razor so that it nicked his jaw before clattering to the floor.

What the devil?

He had no idea what was going on, but Rosalind was sprawled atop him in a most interesting manner. He could see his astonished butler in the doorway, and with the merest flicker of an eye, he sent the man away. And suddenly her hands were all over his face, touching him, stroking him.

"I won't let you do it, Max. I don't care what I said before at Wycombe. I didn't mean it. I do love you. I love you so much it hurts and I will not let you throw your life away. I won't let you do it. I won't!"

Max grabbed onto the important parts of this speech, savoring each word, and managed to snake an arm around her waist and press her closer. But curiosity made him ask, "You won't let me do what, minx?"

"I found your note," she said, her voice shaking with emotion, "the one that said life is a bore and you no longer had a reason to live."

Freddie's note. It must have fallen out of his pocket at Fanny's.

Egad, she believed
he
had written it.

"I won't let you do it," she said again, and began to rain kisses upon his face. "I won't let you. You do have something to live for. Live for me, Max. Live for me!"

Well now, what an interesting development this was. If he told her the truth, she might just slap his face for giving her a scare and go back to saying she wouldn't marry him. On the other hand...