Chapter Ten
Max was red-faced and cursing long before he was interrupted.
He’d thought to send his valet here—punishment for letting him out of the bedroom with a bleeding cut—but was too horrified by the task to give it to anyone else.
And since he didn’t dare check their stable where everyone knew him and would talk about what he was doing, he’d gone down the street with an empty jar and a chisel to sneak into a less exalted one.
With luck, no one would recognize him in a dark cloak and thick scarf.
He found the mold in a corner with the water trough. Layers of it, thick enough to scrape easily into the jar, but he’d had to maneuver himself into an effective position to catch the stuff. Even with gloves on, he didn’t relish rooting around on the ground for it after it had been scraped off.
“I thought I recognized that curse,” drawled a man’s voice from much too close.
Max jolted upright fast enough that he banged his head on a hanging bucket. It wasn’t very painful, but it was loud as the thing clattered against the wall, and he had to scramble to keep it from falling.
Then finally, when everything was settled, he found the courage to see who had caught him grubbing about in a public stable.
“Lord Benedict,” he said, dismay coloring his tone. “What are you doing here?”
The lanky man gave a lazy shrug. “I’m more interested in what you’re doing right there.”
Of course, he was. And given that Benedict was Max’s unofficial superior at the Foreign Office, Max had to answer somehow. They’d also been friends since Max’s first Season in London nearly a decade ago.
“I’d rather not say,” he grumbled as he glanced at the jar. He had several inches of loosely dropped mold. Surely that was enough. He looked around as he stepped out from behind the water trough. “This isn’t your usual haunt. Whyever would you stable your horse here?”
Benedict grinned. “I’d rather not say.”
The two exchanged a long look, both assessing the other for mutually shared secrets.
Max was excruciatingly aware that Benedict could deduce all sorts of wildly incorrect things about what he was doing and so the risk to telling the truth was small.
But he could also see a burden of care around his friend’s shoulders, a tightness in his movements that he could only discern because of their long companionship.
And while he was weighing all that, Benedict gave in. It wasn’t a lack of fortitude. The man could outwait a stone. It probably had to do with the nature of his secret.
“My father insists I beget an heir.”
Max groaned. Benedict would become an earl one day and was older than Max by six years. Max knew the pressure his family set on his shoulders. The pressure upon Benedict would likely be a great deal worse because of his increased age.
“I was going to propose to Kimberly this season,” Max said.
“That’s what you said last season.”
“I meant it this time.”
“Ummm.”
The two fell in step together as they left the stable. “Does your prospective bride live nearby?” Max asked.
“Not too far.”
“Do I know her?”
“Perhaps, though she doesn’t run with the Carlton House set.”
“I should hope not.”
Benedict smiled. “She does, however, have an unusual hobby. I was investigating it.”
Max slowed as he turned to the man. “Now you have me intrigued. What’s her name?”
“I won’t tell you any more. Not until I know why you’ve put dirt in a jar.”
“It’s not dirt, it’s mold. The Chinese princess asked for it, and I was too embarrassed to send my valet out for it.”
“You don’t say!”
He nodded. “I have studied some of their thoughts on medicine. It’s very different from ours.”
“Obviously.”
“But it must work for them. Otherwise, why would they do it? For thousands of years and millions of people.”
Benedict shook his head. “You have always admired them.”
“How can you not be fascinated by people so different from our own? Their history, their medicine, their language is nothing like anything we have. Completely separate, completely different—”
“Completely exciting to you.”
“Yes.” No sense in denying it. Studying England would be like gazing at one’s own naval. Max wanted to see what else was in the world.
Benedict picked up the jar of mold and stared at it. “I should not have asked you to babysit Prinny. I should have encouraged you to join the East India Company. At a minimum, you could have joined Staunton’s diplomatic excursion. He hopes to speak with the emperor himself.”
Yes, Max knew. And how it had burned when the expedition had set sail without him.
But at the time, Prinny had been determined to involve himself personally in the war against Napoleon, and it took every resource at hand to keep him from making disastrous, ill-informed, amateur decisions with their troops.
At the time, Max had been the only one able to convince Prinny to trust his own military leaders.
So Max had remained in London even when his heart had pulled him to China. And thanks to his efforts, Prinny had not commanded the military into doomed battles or ridiculous gambits.
Benedict handed back the jar. “Lord Castlereagh is well aware of your sacrifice. We know Carlton House is not where your heart lies.”
Having the respect of England’s lead diplomat was a balm to his bitterness, but he couldn’t paint himself as so selfless a soul.
“My parents would have fought tooth and nail to keep me in London, and I couldn’t abandon Emmaline to their rancor.
” He sighed. “We both know the pressures of being the heir to an old title. Sometimes I think we are the most trapped souls in England, but then I recall that I have chosen to protect my people and my country. I serve where I am put to the best use. Even if it is at Carlton House where I am commanded to marry a Chinese princess.”
Benedict nodded. This was a familiar discussion between the two of them as they both tried to navigate the responsibilities of their titles. Meanwhile, they walked easily back toward Max’s home.
“Ben,” Max began, “I need to know more about this Wong delegation.”
His friend shook his head. “It was all very slap dash. We were notified the night of their arrival. I heard that they meant to see the king and was only barely able to divert them to Carlton House.”
Max gaped at him. “You sent them there?”
“Of course, I did. Can’t have them going to see the mad king, and I knew you were at Carlton House. What better place to send a Chinese delegation?”
Did the man understand nothing? “You should have said no! They aren’t a true delegation. They’re from a merchant family, not the Chinese emperor—”
“And you were perfectly placed to figure that out.”
“And perfectly placed to get saddled with a new wife!”
He could see Benedict try—and fail—to restrain his grin. The damned man found the situation amusing. “Truly, I am sorry about that. We had no idea about the girl.”
“But you knew they weren’t a real delegation.”
“The country wants Chinese goods. Sometimes that means entertaining a bunch of merchants with a bribe.” He slanted a look at Max.
“Doesn’t mean you have to do what they ask.
Diplomacy is often about placating people while you do what you want.
” He paused as he turned to stare hard at Max. “You should already know that.”
He did. But the whole thing had completely upended his life, and he didn’t know what to do about it. “It’s gotten too big to ignore.”
“Has it?” Benedict challenged, and well he should.
After all, everyone had been telling him the solution from the beginning.
Get rid of the body and set Yihui in a home somewhere.
He didn’t have to give her to the likes of Madame Sabate.
There were plenty of respectable places that would care for her for the right amount of money.
And yet he was planning on nursing her in his own home and was right now carrying mold for her medicine. His own actions did not make sense, but he could not abandon her.
“She’s an innocent in all this.”
“You know she’s not a Chinese princess, right?
Max nodded. “She told me. She’s the daughter of an apothecary, I think. She knows medicines.” He looked dubiously at the jar he carried.
Typically, Benedict didn’t argue. He asked for details. “Start at the beginning.”
So Max did while Benedict listened without comment. And when Max was done, he realized how much his frustration had spilled into his words.
“I see now that Kimberly was right. This disaster was entirely predictable. I need a real posting. Surely, I can do something for the war effort.”
“I’m sure you could,” his friend responded. “But there are several men who could do as well, whereas you are the only one in a position to moderate the prince—”
“Prinny does as he wills,” he interrupted. “I cannot control his whims.”
“But you do moderate them. Just last month you stopped him from ordering the navy to South America to acquire pineapples.”
“The navy would have refused.”
“It would have required a great deal of time and effort on several people’s part. Time that was better spent fighting Napoleon. You distracted him with a clever bit of Chinoiserie.” He grinned. “How very prescient of you.”
“It wasn’t prescient. It was the only thing at hand.”
“And you knew to do it.”
“And now I’m engaged to a Chinese gel with shattered feet!”
“Yes.” Benedict paused then gestured vaguely. “By the way, that’s why I know she’s not a noblewoman. Upper-class Chinese bind their daughter’s feet. It’s a practice that begins very young. It proves the girl has never labored and is thought to be the height of erotic beauty.”
Max knew that already and still shuddered at the idea. “I can’t imagine doing that to anyone, much less a little girl.”