Max closed his eyes. His first thought was of the widow. Could she be convinced she’d been mistaken? But then, the point was moot, he supposed, because she’d waited outside his suite for an extended length of time before returning to the salon where she’d reported to all and sundry.
Max opened his eyes again and stared at the young man cowering before him in the shadowed corridor. “How many people were in the salon?”
Creeves winced. “Enough, sir. Enough that word has spread by now.”
“And the captain? Did you tell him the whole thing was to have been a hoax?”
He shook his head. “I had no time, and hadn’t realized he didn’t know. I bid him good morning, and he chatted about the wedding, about its charming and rather raucous lack of convention. By the time I realized he was unaware of the true nature of the thing, he had bid me good morning.” He flushed. “Each time we’ve crossed with O’Halloran and have witnessed a wedding, the first mate takes various paperwork ashore to file with the British embassy. I asked the captain this morning as he took his leave of me if the first mate had already departed.” Creeves breathed deeply. “And he had. I hoped the certificate and such was still aboard ship—we could destroy it, then. But . . .” He looked away, shoulders slumped. “There is still the matter of Miss Baker’s reputation.”
The young man looked near tears. Max almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“She is a wonderful lady—I’d hate for her to be hurt by this.” He wrinkled his brow. “Although she was in your room . . .”
Max saw red. He shoved the young man up against the wall, his arm at Creeves’ throat. “Do not cast a slur upon her name. She was tending my illness, as your blasted friend nearly killed me!”
Creeves gurgled, and Max slightly relieved the pressure. “Please, sir. I mean no disrespect. But Mr. Maxwell, you must do something, and quickly.”
Max removed his arm from the boy’s neck. Creeves coughed, and added, “If you wish to save her reputation, people must be convinced you intended for the ceremony to be official.”
Max stepped back, visions of Valentine’s forfeit seaside cottage dancing in his head. She would never forgive him. “Nobody back home need ever know of it,” he mumbled, casting at straws.
Creeves eyed him this time with something that looked dangerously like sympathy. Max instinctively railed against it, because it meant he’d lost the upper hand. Appeared vulnerable. Which, now, he truly was.
“Sir, the British Empire is small, although the world itself is huge. Word will travel back to London before you realize it, especially given your level of fame. And Dr. Henry was awake last night in the salon by the time the widow returned. He was one of a few who heard every word.”
Max exhaled slowly and stepped back, leaning against the corridor wall for support. “Go,” he said to Creeves, “and keep Payne away from me if you value his life.”
The young man spun and sprinted down the passageway, shoving past people who were beginning to arrive for breakfast.
Max straightened and managed a nod as people bid him good morning. He remained in the hallway, a myriad of thoughts spinning through his head, and the one most paramount among the rest was the one causing him the most anguish.
How was he going to tell Valentine he’d shattered her dream of independence?
Truly, he blamed himself. He should never have accepted Henry’s ridiculous challenge when he’d lifted his glass to down the ill-fated whiskey. He had known Payne was up to something nefarious, and he’d allowed his pride to overcome common sense. There had been a small part of him that hadn’t wanted to appear cowardly in front of Valentine, and he readily admitted it.
His snippets of memory returned steadily, although they remained cloudy, dreamlike. It had been utter chaos, and Valentine had fought valiantly but was no match for a salon full of drunken idiots. He remembered her trying to push and shove at him to make him leave, and, in spite of his regret for her sake, his lips twitched as he remembered her staring daggers at the widow who had been hovering close to him. Valentine had neatly stepped in and prevented a “wedding” between him and Mrs. Willoughby-Whatever, and his gratitude for that knew no bounds. If she had not, likely he would now find himself tied to Mrs. Willoughby-Whatever-Maxwell.
He groaned and slumped against the wall again, thumping his head back and closing his eyes. More passengers approached from the opposite end of the corridor as a flock moved in front of him. Through the people, he saw a very sick-looking Chauncey Payne entering the dining room, followed by Colin and Alfred, who seemed absolutely frantic.
Max clenched his jaw, considering his options and prioritizing. There were so many fires to extinguish, he hardly knew where to start. He needed to speak to Val, needed to be the one to explain their current reality. But she spent her mornings with Contessa and then appeared for brunch. By his best guess, Max determined he had a couple of hours.
He followed an aging couple into the salon, resisting the urge to plow between the two of them. He finally gained entrance and scanned the room. He spied his quarry standing in a far corner, Payne looking faint, his friends decidedly grim. He really would like to kill all three, he decided as he crossed the room, managing a smile here or there for friendly passengers. To his best recollection, all three men had played a part in the fiasco. Chauncey Payne had drugged him, Colin Drivens had drafted the wedding certificate, and Alfred Creeves had fetched the captain. Had Creeves drummed up someone lacking the legal jurisdiction to perform a wedding, the whole affair would be but a silly shipboard memory.
Except for the fact that Valentine had spent the entire evening in his suite. Because Payne had drugged him. His nostrils flared. Yes. Kill all three, but begin with Chauncey.
He reached the three men, who backed themselves farther into the corner until they came up against the wall. He put a smile on his face for any who might observe, but said, “I shall take each of you apart, but not here or now. Hear me, and hear me well, especially you.” He narrowed his gaze on Chauncey. “My wife and I arranged for the wedding to unfold exactly as it happened, and we enlisted the help of the three of you,” he spat, “to do so.”
Three heads nodded in unison.
“Once the ceremony was finished, we retired to our chambers where we spent the remainder of the night.”
They nodded slowly, apparently uncertain, all of them, as to his meaning.
“Oh! Yes, yes,” Alfred said and elbowed Chauncey. “We are to assume the marriage was consumma—”
“Indeed, yes,” Colin interrupted, nodding vigorously.
Chauncey also nodded and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, then he stilled. His eye held a decidedly curious gleam. “But, wait, did you, then?”
Max leaned slightly forward, every instinct he possessed screaming at him to hit the idiot. Both of his friends were clearly more adept, as they nudged Chauncey with more force than was probably necessary.
“If I hear one disparaging word about my wife, I will ruin you. All of you. Am I clear?”
Three heads nodded again as one, and Alfred’s glance flickered over Max’s shoulder, directing his attention to Dr. Reginald Henry, who entered followed closely by the art dealer and the black widow.
Max left the three in the corner and turned toward the three advancing on him. Henry appeared as sickly as Max still felt, but the man smirked as they met in the middle of the room. “Well,” Henry said in an undertone as he extended his hand for an outward show of friendship, “if it isn’t the debaucher of innocents.”
“Leave her out of this.” Max took the offered hand and gripped until Henry winced.
“Ah, but therein lies the rub, does it not? She is in the thick of it.”
“Fortuitous, then, that our wedding was planned.” Max managed a smile through narrowed eyes and took in the other two adults with Henry. “Perhaps a bit more raucous than we’d have liked, but certainly with the theatrical flair we’d hoped for.”
The art dealer—Stanley? Sc
hmancy?—raised a brow. “You planned that fiasco?”
Henry glanced at his friend. “He is a boxer, Stewart. Not much finesse.”
“Disparage me all you will. I will not hear ill spoken of my wife. I would hope people with finesse would honor such a request.”
The black widow had the grace to blush. “I would never. You may not recall, but it was I who gave her hand to you in marriage.”
Maxwell squinted at her. “Odd, that, given you were a stranger to her until yesterday, and following the ceremony, you sought to keep me company. Presumably in the absence of my new wife.”
She sniffed as the art dealer bristled. “Here now, no call to disparage any lady aboard, Maxwell.”
Max bit his tongue to keep from snapping back that he had not, in fact, disparaged a lady. No sense in making an enemy of that one. However, for Valentine’s sake, he exercised patience.
“Apologies, of course,” he said to the woman. “I may have misunderstood your motives.”
She raised a brow.
“Your good intentions.” He smiled. “Of course.” Max glanced around to assure they hadn’t been overheard, and then continued. “Regardless, I am certain you all understand the delicacy of the situation. The majority of the crowd gathered last night believed the ceremony to be a farce.”
Henry smiled, “And I am certain you understand the intricacies of my situation. I have a glorious opportunity before me to settle old scores. Even the balance sheet, as it were. Payback for the bruises I met at the hands of a very uncultured upstart who thought to take down his betters.”
“You were a bully, Henry, and I defended my brother, and only then were the sides even. You know it. But it is neither here nor there. In settling this score, you will drag the name of one very good young woman through the mud.”
“A shame.” Henry’s nostrils flared. “I have multiple witnesses who saw that young buck dose both you and me with opium. I was quite out for the count, as it were,” he tipped his head to Max, “and know full well I was not in a position last night to have given myself in marriage to anyone. I wasn’t lucid for hours. Brings legalities into question.”
Max smiled grimly. “You’re clutching at straws, Reggie.”
Henry’s face grew mottled at the hated nickname.
“And besides, as I said, the wedding had been planned. My personal assent during the ceremony is implicit, regardless of however much opium I may have ingested. The proper documentation is swimming its way to Alexandria as we speak, to be filed at the British Embassy before the day is out.”
Henry regarded him, one muscle in his cheek ticking.
“Valentine Baker and I are well and truly married, and I cannot fathom why you would care one way or another. Suppose it were all just a farce? To what harm do I come?” He smiled without humor. “It establishes my reputation as a scoundrel. Nothing more. Men will do what men will do. Miss Baker, however, would find herself completely and thoroughly shunned. She would be accepted nowhere except in the deepest recesses of the demimonde as someone’s paramour, forever banished from family and friends. Life is unfair to the fairer sex.”
Mrs. Willoughby-Something nodded reluctantly, brows raised. She opened her mouth to speak, but paused and tilted her head toward the doorway, “Mrs. Maxwell has arrived for breakfast, it seems.” She glanced at Max, “I did wonder what new husband in his right mind would be away from his bride the morning after their nuptials. Perhaps Mrs. Maxwell still feels some responsibility for her elderly companion?”
Max’s heart pounded. Why was Val already here? He hadn’t spoken with her yet, and given the normal expression on her face, she probably remained in ignorance. She had no idea she was a married woman. He nodded, grateful for the excuse the widow provided, raising her in his estimation from detestable to merely disagreeable. “Astute of you, my lady. My wife is indeed most compassionate toward the countess and is determined to continue caring for her despite our recent nuptials.” He sketched a bow and made his way to Valentine, who had entered with Contessa. A small group of people near the door gave a murmur of delight, accompanied by a smattering of applause and laughter.
Valentine blushed, but she smiled. She appeared pale, and he longed, more than anything, to whisk her away from prying eyes. Which, he supposed, he could legally and morally do. He didn’t allow himself to linger on the thought. He must handle the current dust-up, and then, when they returned to London, he would see about an annulment. Perhaps she could file for divorce, casting him as a villain and preserving most of her reputation. Divorces were not the thing, but if she filed as opposed to her husband, her reputation would be better preserved. One of her brothers was a solicitor, he was certain she’d mentioned it. He could help.
These thoughts and more swirled through his head as he closed the distance between them. “Dearest, I had thought not to see you until brunch.” He smiled and clasped both of her hands, kissing her directly on the mouth, to the delighted gasps of their dining audience.
Her eyes grew huge, as did Contessa’s. The older woman murmured something in Italian that he was fairly certain meant, “Are you insane?”
“Ha ha ha, darling, I don’t suppose you expected to see me either!” Max clasped her face in his hands. “But I decided it would be best to inform our friends who celebrated with us last evening that it was a genuine ceremony; that we’d planned it well in advance!”
To her credit, she did not hesitate. “I am glad, indeed, that one of us thought to tell everyone, ha ha ha!” She blushed furiously, and those who sat nearby chuckled good-naturedly, likely assuming the reason for her embarrassment was because she was a new bride with knowledge of carnal matters now.
“You seem faint, pumpkin, are you faint? Perhaps the excitement has made you feel faint.” He opened his eyes wide. She looked bewildered, stunned, utterly flummoxed, but nowhere near faint.
“I suppose I must be faint? I am rather tired?” She opened her eyes wide also in a mirror of his, trying to follow where he led.
A few gentlemen chortled, and he thought he heard a “Well done, Maxwell!”
He stifled a curse. “Ha ha!” Offering one arm each to his bride and the Italian countess, he ushered them from the salon. “Keep walking, we cannot talk here,” he muttered, guiding them through the corridors to his suite where he unlocked the door and led them both inside.
“Wha . . .” Valentine placed a hand on her forehead and sank onto a settee.
Contessa stood resolute before him, like a commander leading troops into battle. “What have you done, Maxwell?”
“No,” Valentine interjected. “It is nothing he’s done, Contessa. It is a very large tangle involving a host of players.” She looked up at Max, her expression unreadable.
“Please.” He gestured to a chair and Contessa sat, her lips compressed in a firm line.
He sat next to Valentine on the settee. He braced his arms on his knees, fingertips tapping together. “So . . .”
She nodded. “So . . .”
“So what,” Contessa snapped.
Max cleared his throat. He hadn’t felt like a chastened school boy in some time. “So we participated in a mock wedding ceremony last night that, ha ha ha, was actually official. Unbeknownst to us and nearly everyone in second class. And approximately half of first.”
Contessa frowned, “Valentina mentioned the silliness. Not that it was official.”
“I didn’t know—”
“She didn’t know.” Max pinched the bridge of his nose. His headache wasn’t dissipating; instead, it was gathering force. “I did not know.” He spread his hands wide. “Nobody knew!” He smiled and it felt sickly. “I am not certain I can even untangle it enough to explain it, my lady, but Valentine and I are, in fact, legally married.”
Contessa raised a brow. “Annul it.”
“That does seem a logical course of action.” Max paused. “There are, however, extenuating circumstances.”
He glanced at Valentine, who closed her ey
es as realization clearly sunk in. “I spent the night, here, in his suite.”
He felt sick. She’d done it because he had been desperately ill and she was afraid for a friend. He clasped her hand, which was chilled, and pressed it between his. He explained the details to Contessa, who watched him stoically without blinking, all the while wishing desperately he knew what Valentine was thinking. He had planned to deliver the news to her gently, not before an entire group of people, and certainly not in the presence of the contessa.
Contessa inhaled and exhaled through her nose, “I shall say she was with me after returning from this wedding.”
Max winced. “There were witnesses to her presence here.”
Contessa’s eyes widened, “In here?”
“What?” Valentine’s face leeched of all color.
He rubbed his eyes. He was suddenly very, very tired. “No. Ladies, it is indeed a tangled web, but for the time, we must play it out. Mrs. Maxwell, you are no longer a single woman.”
Valentine stood on the deck, watching as smaller boats ferried to the steamer, their purpose to carry the passengers and belongings to Alexandria’s bustling shore. She was numb, and her face hurt from smiling at people who offered her congratulations and complimented both her and her clever husband on staging such a unique wedding. Another woman, as an aside, expressed her envy of such a strapping husband and said she was surprised Valentine had been awake for the early breakfast.
The only thing Valentine knew for certain was that she had been exhausted that morning, but it had nothing to do with marital bliss and everything to do with fear of her “husband’s” eminent demise from a bad reaction to whiskey and opium. She and Max had yet to spend any time alone together. Once he had explained, to the best of his ability, the nuances of their situation to both her and Contessa, and his willingness to help her petition for divorce once home, Contessa had whisked her out of his suite and insisted Valentine finish helping her pack for disembarking.
From Cairo, With Love (Timeless Romance Single Book 1) Page 8
