Anger washed through her, as it had periodically since Max had broken her heart. How could he do this to her? How could he use that glorious moment they'd shared to further his own selfish ends? He was indeed a rake, a rogue, a scoundrel, and a beast in the very worst sense of the words.
She shoved the dress into the bag with a vicious punch as if it was responsible for her troubles. In truth, the blame rested as much on her shoulders as on Max's. If only she hadn't been such a fool. If only she'd kept her head about her and paid no attention to her heart.
If only she hadn't fallen in love.
And now she was running away. Even at this moment she knew full well the sheer idiocy of it. There might be other ways to save herself from marriage to a man who didn't love her, but she certainly couldn't think of any right now. And there was not a great deal of time left. She had no doubt Max would pass the last tests and her destiny would be sealed.
No. She would not go meekly to that fate. If the rest of her life was meant to be miserable and forlorn, at least she could choose the path that would take her there. As truly stupid as it might be, in just a few hours she would take the first step on that road.
And there would be no turning back.
Chapter 22
The Stakes are Raised
What was Laurie up to now? Didn't Max have enough on his mind trying to find a way to pass the last test? If this was another one of Laurie's attempts to thwart his efforts, old friend or no old friend, he'd be forced to thrash him or worse.
Rain splattered against the window. Flashes of lightning lit the windows behind the drawn curtains, the night an apt reflection of his mood.
He leaned back in his desk chair and studied the note delivered by one of Laurie's servants. It had sat on a table near the door, overlooked for nearly an hour before the butler had brought it to him.
My dear Max,
I have decided to take the trip we discussed, although I shall not be traveling to any foreign shores. Even Scotland holds no appeal. I do not know when I will return, perhaps five months, perhaps five days. Thus my interference in your game is at an end.
I have further decided you are right. Marriage is not a trap if planned correctly. My previous attitude was only a ruse, a trick played on myself, to avoid the inevitable.
Odd, how we seem doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past. Although I must confess I would prefer to be lying in my own bath, always nice this time of year, contemplating the desperate actions of hellions and others of a trying yet appealing nature and thus to escape questioning my own character.
Forgive me for abandoning you at this time but I have no choice. I find I must follow my own course although, of the two of us, I would have expected such a thing from you rather than me.
Yours,
Laurie
Max drew his brows together in confusion. This made absolutely no sense. Why would Laurie be going anywhere at all? And why would he leave so cryptic a message? Plus, the handwriting itself was neater than Laurie's usual scrawl, and several of the words appeared bolder. Max tried to dismiss a nagging sense of unease.
Without warning the door to the library swung open sharply. Thunder cracked outside in accompaniment.
“Maximillian.” The familiar voice echoed in the room. “I want to know what is going on.”
Max groaned to himself. The thunder was more than appropriate. “Good evening, Mother.”
The Countess of Trent swept into the room, like a frigate under full sail, swathed in silk and feathers. Imposing at the most innocuous of times, when in the throes of outrage she was overwhelming. Max was well used to standing his ground against her, and had done so since the age of ten. Still, it had taken facing death at the hands of Napoleon's troops to truly end any qualms he'd had about doing so.
“How could you even consider marriage to that…that…”
“That what, Mother?”
“Hellion.” The countess spat out the word as if it was not to be said in polite society. Still, if one had to chose between Napoleon's troops and Lady Trent…
“Which hellion?” he said innocently.
She gasped. “You are involved with more than one?”
“I gather you are referring to Pandora Effington.” He chuckled. “And no, Mother, one is quite enough.”
“That one is entirely too much.” She drew herself up to her full, if diminutive, height--she was no taller than Pandora--and cast him the glare that had haunted his childhood dreams. “Well, I will not allow it.”
“You have nothing to say about it.” He grinned, always amazed that his mother's ire amused him more than anything else.
Her eyes widened. “I forbid it!”
“Be that as it may,” he shrugged, “I will marry her. At this point I am confident of success.”
“You're talking about that game you're playing with her, aren't you? That ridiculous bargain?” She folded her hands together in a stern fashion. “Everyone, simply everyone I know is talking about it. I have never been so humiliated.”
He lifted a brow. “I was not aware of your involvement.”
She continued as if he hadn't spoken. “My own son. Wagering his future like this. Risking something as important as whom should be the mother of his heirs. My grandchildren. It is simply too much.” She brought the back of her hand to her forehead, closed her eyes and reached her other hand out to him beseechingly. “I cannot abide the very thought. I fear I shall swoon right here on the spot.”
He tried not to laugh. He had seen this act many times before. “Then I should suggest moving to the vicinity of the sofa, Mother. It's much more comfortable for swooning.”
She opened her eyes and glared. “Thank you for your concern, but the feeling has passed.” She marched to the sofa and lowered herself on to the seat in the manner of a queen deigning to converse with the commoners. “Tell me one thing, Maximillian, why her? Of all the women in London, in England, why are you set on this one?”
He smiled, more to himself than to her. “I have my reasons, Mother. I doubt that you'd understand.”
Her eyes narrowed and she studied him carefully. Finally she gasped. “God help us all, you're in love!” She collapsed deeper into the sofa and fanned herself with her hand. “Oh, I truly am going to swoon.”
“What makes you think I'm in love?” He dropped Laurie's note on the desk and settled in the chair behind it.
She raised her head and glared. “I'm your mother. Like it or not, I know you. I can see it on your face.”
“Really?” he murmured. “How interesting.”
“It's not at all interesting.” Her head dropped onto the sofa back. “It's devastating.” She raised her head again. “She's one of the Effingtons, you know?”
“I do.” His mother was rather a snob, if an amusing snob. “The granddaughter of a duke.”
“Well, that's something, at any rate.” She started to lower her head, then stopped. “Do you know what she's called?”
“You mean the Hellion of Grosvenor Square?”
She nodded.
“I'm well aware of that.”
Once more his mother's head dropped back.
“She really hasn't done all that much to earn the title, Mother.”
“Hah! There have been duels and wagers and, dear Lord, Maximillian.” This time she didn't bother to raise her head and settled for fixing him with a pointed glare. “She's in her eighth season.”
“Seventh, Mother,” he said, and bit back a grin.
“Regardless.” She waved a weary hand. “One has to wonder why she hasn't married before now if, as you say, she hasn't done all that much to earn her reputation.”
“She hasn't married before now,” he cast her a smug smile, “because she hadn't met me.”
The countess's eyes widened as if she couldn't believe his arrogance; then, without warning, she laughed. “Maximillian, you are such an amusing devil. I daresay I can't blame the chit for restraining herself until she met you.”
&n
bsp; “Thank you, Mother.”
She heaved a resigned sigh. “I also know that tone of yours. There is nothing I can do to stop you, is there?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“You are as stubborn as your father.”
“You could wish me well.”
“I could. But I'm not especially pleased about it.” She sighed again. “I still don't understand how you can want to marry a women who's been scandalously involved with your dearest friend.”
“My dearest friend?” Confusion knitted his brows. “Who are you talking about?”
“Oh, you know.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Viscount Bolton. He's the one she ran off to Gretna Green with, when was it, now? Six years ago?”
“Five,” he murmured. Laurie? Shock coursed through him. He'd known of the incident, of course, but had somehow failed to note the identity of the gentleman who'd accompanied her. It was of no importance at the time.
“He's the one who named her the Hellion of Grosvenor Square. If I recall the gossip then, she quite broke his heart, poor dear.” She struggled to sit upright and studied him. “You didn't know this, did you?”
“No.” Of course. It all made sense now. Laurie's adamant objection to his relationship with Pandora. His strange comment about being humiliated whenever he was around the Effingtons. The way he and Pandora had acted in the country…
Odd, how we seemed doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past.
“The mistakes of the past?” His stomach turned and his heart caught in his throat.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, Mother.” Or everything. He searched the desktop, snatched up Laurie's note, and read it twice more, focusing on the darker words. Not-Traveling-Scotland-Return-Five-Days-Game-End.
“If I can tell when you're in love I can certainly tell when something has overset you. Now, what is it?”
“Miss Effington has run off with Laurie,” he muttered. Marriage-Not-Planned-Only-a-Ruse.
“Oh, really?” Her voice rang with delight. He cast her a sharp glance. Immediately she adopted a downcast expression. “What I meant to say was, oh,” she sighed sympathetically, “really.”
“Thank you for your concern.”Bath-nice-this-time-of-year-desperate-hellion-trying-to-escape.
“Well, it's no doubt for the best, although I must say I am pleased you are finally interested in marriage. I know several eminently suitable, and really quite charming--”
“I'm going to marry Miss Effington, Mother.”Forgive-me-no-choice-follow-us. “I'm going after them.”
“Maximillian, you cannot be serious.” She rose to her feet. “I for--” He shot her a quelling glance. “Well, I think it's a mistake. She has run off with Bolton to Gretna Green once before, and--”
“They're not going to Scotland.” Laurie had done a damned fine job of relaying information. Still, why the subterfuge? Unless this was Laurie's way of dealing with what, at this point, must be divided loyalties. “I believe they're going to Bath.”
“Bath?” Confusion creased her brow. “No one runs away to Bath to be married.”
“They're not getting married.” Should he start for Bath now? No. First he should stop at Pandora's house. If Laurie was clever enough to leave him a message, maybe he was clever enough to stall their departure.
She gasped. “That's deplorable! Scandalous! Maximillian, you cannot go after this…this hellion.”
“As you pointed out, Mother, that hellion is the woman I love.” He headed for the door. “And she's leaving, apparently to escape marriage to me.”
If Max was too late…cold fear clutched at him. It would not be impossible for her to escape detection for the next five days. As long as she remained with Laurie she'd be safe, but knowing Pandora, he couldn't be certain she did not plan to go off on her own.
“Maximillian, wait.” Genuine sympathy rang in his mother's voice. “Do you wish to force a woman into marriage who is so desperate to avoid it--and forgive me, dear--or avoid you that she would take the extreme measure of running off with another man? And further, do you really want such a woman?”
“You have the question only half right, mother. I'm afraid the crucial issue isn't if I want her.” He raked his fingers through his hair.
“But if she will still have me.”
Lady Harold swept down the wide stairway, clutching a note in her hand, Lord Harold a step behind.
Cynthia smiled up at them. “Is all arranged, then? Are we ready to go?”
“Pandora has run off.” Lady Harold reached the bottom of the stairs and grabbed a cloak off a nearby chair.
“With the twit,” Lord Harold said.
Cynthia stared in disbelief. “What twit?”
“Bolton.” Lord Harold's voice was grim.
Cynthia gasped. “My twit?”
“He shall not be your twit if we do not stop them.” Lady Harold swung the cloak over her shoulders.
“What do you mean?” Cynthia's breath caught.
Lady Harold heaved a deep sigh. “We think they've gone to Gretna Green--”
“Again,” Lord Harold interrupted.
Again?
“Pandora left a note.” She waved the paper. “She didn't say precisely that was where they were going, but the implication was more than clear.”
Lord Harold snorted. “The girl says she sees no other way to avoid marriage with Trent. I knew this game would come to a bad end. I should have stopped it when Bolton came to me.”
“Lawrence spoke to you?” Cynthia's head reeled.
“That's of little consequence at the moment,” Lady Harold snapped. “We have to stop them.” She started toward the door.
“Wait.” Cynthia shook her head. “I don't understand. What did you mean when you said they'd gone to Gretna Green again?”
“It was before you knew her. She and Bolton headed to Scotland during her second season. On a lark, Pandora said then, with two other couples. When they were caught, she adamantly refused to marry him.”
Lord Harold shook his head. “I should have put my foot down then. Should have made her marry him. He's not a bad sort, really. Of course, he was the one who named her the Hellion of Grosvenor Square.”
Lady Harold's eyes widened and she stared at Cynthia. “You didn't know?”
Misery washed through her and she shook her head slowly. “I knew the story but I didn't know Laur--Bolton was the twit.”
“I am sorry, my dear.” Lady Harold put her arm around her and gave her a quick hug. “All might still be resolved to everyone's satisfaction.”
“Resolved?” At once anger swept away her distress. “The only satisfying resolution would be to slay Bolton on the spot. Strangle him with my bare hands. Stab him with something sharp and wicked. Or shoot him. But perhaps that wouldn't be painful enough.”
“I like this girl, Grace.” A smile quirked Lord Harold's lips. “By Jove, she sounds like an Effington.”
“Poor thing,” Lady Harold murmured. “Enough of this, we must go.”
“Wait,” Lord Harold said. “Why? It's a nasty night. Rain's coming down like a biblical retribution.”
“Harry.” Lady Harold's voice rang with impatience. “We have to save Pandora. Her reputation is at stake. Her very future.”
“Why,” he repeated stubbornly, “she's a grown woman. It's time we let her make her own mistakes.”
“Harry,” Lady Harold pinned him with a no nonsense glare. “We have always let her make her own mistakes. If we hadn't she wouldn't be in this situation now.”
He shook his head. “I still don't--”
“If we don't stop her, she'll lose the man she really loves.” A slight smile played on Lady Harold's lips. “You do remember how ridiculous people act when they're in love, don't you?”
He studied her for a moment, then smiled sheepishly. “Especially Effingtons.”
Abruptly Cynthia realized Pandora's parents did not have to search their memories to recall those feelings. A pang of envy sho
t through her. Would she and Lawrence feel that way someday? If he didn't marry Pandora. And if Cynthia didn't shoot him.
“Very well, then, let's be off.” He looked around. “Where in the name of all that's holy is my coat? And where is Peters?”
“Oh dear.” Lady Harold winced. “I sent him on an errand right before I found Pandora's note. I do hope…” She shrugged. “Well, it can't be helped now.” She stepped briskly toward the door. “Come along, both of you.”
“I gather this means the kidnapping is off?” Cynthia couldn't quite hide her disappointment.
“It can't be helped,” Lady Harold said over her shoulder.
“Kidnapping?” Lord Harold frowned. “What kidnapping?”
“It's of no significance at the moment, my love.” She pulled open the door and stepped outside.
“There is a pistol in the bottom drawer of my desk should you need it,” Lord Harold said under his breath to Cynthia.
“Is it very difficult to use?” she murmured.
“You should have no problem at all.”
“Excellent.” She smiled sweetly. In spite of her initial reaction, she didn't believe Pandora would really marry Lawrence although what the two truly had in mind escaped her. And she was confident she would have Lawrence back to do with as she pleased.
Shooting him sounded like a lovely idea.
Pandora shifted from one side of the seat to the other. The rain beat on the top of the carriage in an endless staccato that pulsed through her blood and directed the rhythm of her breathing. With every minute spent inside the cold, damp carriage, her spirits sank lower and her anxiety increased.
She leaned toward one of the open windows and drew in a deep breath of fresh air, ignoring the rain that slapped across her face. But even her discomfort at being in this black box of a carriage with the constant drumming of rain couldn't distract her from the everincreasing jumble of emotions assaulting her.
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