Chapter 46
Max was just tying his cravat when a servant interrupted his valet with the news that Lady Best was waiting downstairs.
He’d spent a restless night. It was bad enough to be unexpectedly mauled by a young lady the very night before his interview with the local bishop, but to be caught by Etta mid-maul was far, far worse.
Of course, it was fixable. Nobody but Etta and the Bramleys had seen, thank god, but even though it was most certainly not his fault he was going to have to take Etta a huge bouquet of flowers for even letting himself be trapped in such a scenario.
He’d searched for her in the ballroom with more obvious desperation than was decorous, but she’d been nowhere to be found.
He didn’t blame her: the situation had looked dire, to say the least.
But now Lady Best was at his door, which meant the situation was even more dire than it had looked last night. He sincerely hoped she wasn’t about to make a scene, because there was no way on earth he was going to become in any way attached to her and her dull, duplicitous daughter.
He sighed, resigned to a difficult conversation. ‘Tell Lady Best I shall be with her shortly—’
But he was interrupted by a booming noise from downstairs. Max froze, his hands still against his collar. The unmistakable sound of his father’s voice echoed across the hallway:
‘Lady Best, you will remove yourself from my house immediately …’
Max waved his valet to one side and crept down the hallway, feeling like an errant schoolboy. He didn’t have to listen hard in order to hear the Marquess’s livid tirade, but he felt an irresistible urge to see how his victim was taking it.
‘Years ago, you attempted to entrap me into marriage with your foolish self. Now, decades later, you attempt it again with your idiot harpy of a daughter.’
Max peered down the grand stairs into the hallway. Lady Best stood indignantly on the tiled marble floor, her daughter cowering behind her.
‘Sir, I did not come to speak with you. I came to speak with your—’
‘Son, I know. You came to harass my son. Well, I can tell you here and now that if my son ever, ever has the latent idiocy required to propose to you, your daughter, or any member of your family, I shall immediately disinherit him.’
Max couldn’t help but smile. It seemed his father was finally back in full health. Perhaps the opportunity to ream out his old enemy had helped him regain his joie de vivre. The Marquess certainly seemed to be enjoying himself.
‘But your grace, your son was clearly caught—’
‘By whom, I might ask?’
‘Well, by—’ Lady Best began to bluster, her defences clearly worn down.
‘Miss Henrietta Bainbridge, perhaps?’
The older woman swelled slightly, buoyant with what she clearly considered to be good news. ‘Yes! Mad Hetty! And the Bramleys. They were there to witness the terrible affront on my daughter’s virtue inflicted by your son! Ask them!’
She was interrupted by a shout of derisive laughter from Lord Kent. ‘The Bramleys! Ha! My Miranda’s family! You chose badly, if you thought to choose my deceased wife’s kin. The Bramleys couldn’t be more trustworthy allies of the Kents.’
Lady Best faltered. ‘Well … I might have mentioned it to several ladies before we left the ballroom, and surely Miss Bainbridge will have told others …’
‘I don’t care who she might have told. Nobody, I imagine, if she has any sense at all. And not a single member of the Ton would believe any cock and bull story about my son marrying your daughter. Ha! A Kent, deign to marry a mere Miss Marley? Over my cold, rotting corpse!’
Lord Kent was in his element now, Max realised. His father had needed something to get really, truly cross about for some time – and he was very glad it wasn’t him, for once.
‘At any rate, madam—’
Max decided it was time to make his presence known. He coughed and made his way down the stairs. His father swivelled to look at him, still glaring.
‘Got a cold, boy?’
‘No, sir,’ said Max smoothly. ‘I just wondered why you and Lady Best were discussing my fiancée out here in the hallway.’
His father replied instantly, brandishing his stick energetically. ‘Because I will not taint my library with the likes of this harpy.’
Max fought the desire to laugh aloud. ‘Well then, Lady Best. Since my father won’t receive you in his library, and I won’t receive you at all, I can only suggest that you leave.’
‘But my daughter …’
‘… will remain unwed indefinitely, if she continues to try and ensnare unwilling men using dirty tricks,’ finished Max.
Clarissa stepped out from behind her mother, eyes flashing. ‘How dare you! Any number of people might have seen us in that hallway …’
‘And yet you know as well as I do that they did not, Miss Best. Good day.’
Max beckoned to the butler, who opened the front door.
Lady Best narrowed her eyes. ‘This won’t be the last you hear of this, believe me.’
The Marquess took a deep breath, struggling to contain himself, but Max made his reply as he walked them to the door.
‘If you mean that your future granddaughter will be accosting my future son, I sincerely hope I am there to send her packing in half such a grand style as my father. But if you mean to bother my fiancée, Miss Bainbridge, I strongly recommend against it.’
His father’s voice rang out from behind him. ‘And I look forward to any opportunity to tell the Prince Regent about your erstwhile husband’s debts to me. And his prostitutes. And, of course, his syphilis.’
Max winced. So too did Lady Best and her daughter, who hurried away without another word.
He turned to face his father. ‘Changed your mind about Miss Bainbridge, then?’
‘Into the study, boy. We do not discuss ladies in the hallway.’
Grinning widely, Max followed Lord Kent into his large, wood-panelled study and poured two large glasses of brandy.
‘Go on, keep pouring. I’ll be needing three fingers after all that nonsense.’
Max raised an eyebrow and passed his father a small glass, refusing to pour any more. The Marquess’s doctor had been quite clear and they both knew it.
Max cleared his throat. ‘So, I see your opinion of Miss Bainbridge has undergone a miraculous transformation since we last spoke.’
‘I saw her last night, after she caught you kissing that awful harpy. That girl is no more mad than I am.’
Max was halfway through taking a large swig of brandy that caught in his throat.
His father looked at him disdainfully. ‘Yes, yes, I realise that does make her ever so slightly mad. What on earth were you doing, anyway, getting caught with that damned awful girl?’
‘It’s hardly my fault, Father! She lay in wait and leapt out at me!’
‘You should know to expect these things by now, Maximillian. You’re a prime catch on the marriage mart.’
‘Unless, of course, you disinherit me. I seem damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Not Miss Bainbridge, not Miss Best … Who will you have me marry, dare I ask?’
Lord Kent eyed him warily over the rim of his brandy. ‘I think we are both well aware that the estate is entailed.’
‘Yes, I spoke to Ponsonby about it the moment I came of age. But the question stands.’
Lord Kent harrumphed. ‘Well, the Bainbridge girl is a better catch than I expected her to be.’
Max sat back, triumphant. ‘I’m glad you like her. It will make things all the easier when I begin to prepare her rooms in the west wing. Providing, that is, that you still take objection to me having my own house?’
His father eyed him carefully. ‘Damned waste of money.’
‘Good. Then I shall prepare them immediately.’
‘Yes. In blue. The girl looks good in blue.’ His father paused. ‘And throw her a ball, too. A big one.’
Max grinned. ‘Shall I invite Lady Best?’
His father slammed his empty glass down onto his desk. ‘Don’t push it, boy. Now leave me. And get Hammond to fetch for the family jeweller. I’ll buy her a wedding necklace. No, damn it. She deserves a full parure for marrying a scoundrel like you.’
Max set out to the Bainbridge townhouse to finalise the paperwork. If Etta persisted in being angry with him … well, he’d find a way to bring her round.
Etta sat on the edge of the docks, hugging her bag forlornly.
For the first time, it all felt terribly real.
Her lovely Regency adventure was finally over – and there could be no question that she was not in a dream now.
The taste of bile in her throat told her, once and for all, that this was no Georgette Heyer novel.
This was her life now. And she’d not even got the bloody bracelet.
Whether her subsequent dizziness was from the journey, her sudden grounding in reality, or just from the general atmosphere of the Dover docks, she would never know. The whole area was absolutely packed with people, loading and unloading ships big and small.
The hustle and bustle was overwhelming. She drew her cloak around her tightly as she found herself being ogled by any number of disgusting-smelling sailors who seemed determined to whistle and catcall any woman nearby.
When she wasn’t pushing past rough, malodorous men trying to cop a feel, she was being glared at by sex workers who clearly felt she was potential competition.
A sign pointed her to a small ticket office, fronted by a sniffling, stern-looking man.
‘How can I help you, miss? A servant, I suppose. Hope you’re not here for a ticket for your mistress. We’re sold out.’
Etta’s heart fell through her chest. ‘To Calais?’
‘That’s right. Nowt for a se’ennight, miss.’
‘But can’t you make an exception? My – my mistress is terribly important.’
The man snorted derisively. ‘Aye, and that’ll be why she sent a little slip of a girl like you and not a manservant. Off you go.’
‘But—’
‘No ticket, no crossing. I can book you a place for a week on Tuesday, or nothing at all.’
A week? She had plenty of cash, but almost certainly not enough to put herself up in a strange city for a week.
Etta clutched her bag to her chest as she looked for a way out of the crowd, forcing her way past a mass of people boarding the ship she’d just been denied entrance to and dodging a large crate being hauled aboard.
She took one last look at the boat, already packed with passengers, then walked some way through the streets of Dover.
She could feel the rounded cobbles pressing painfully through her boots and decided to keep going until she found somewhere to sit and think – it was already so late, the sun beginning to disappear behind the low rooftops.
Thankfully she soon came across a small church, its doors unlocked, and gratefully crept in to sit in a pew at the back.
The vicar was nowhere to be seen, so Etta slumped in her pew, tipped her head back and took a long breath, grateful to be alone.
She rested her chin on her fingertips and decided to do a brief audit of her belongings before she went to look for something to eat. Opening her bag, she rifled for her purse that she’d stuffed deep inside.
Of course, she couldn’t find it.
She upended the bag onto the pew. Its contents went everywhere, scattering in the darkness. A few coins rolled out, but nothing else. No purse, no paper money, and her ring and necklace were gone.
Well, she was now, as 2023 her would say, Proper Fucked.