“Not in any true sense of the word,” muttered Max. “But I suppose he thinks of himself as such. He certainly prefers to live like one.”
“Don’t we all, mate.” Leake grinned. “What’s he done?” Max glared and Leake shrugged. “Just curious. What’s his name?”
“I have reason to believe he might be in London,” said Max, ignoring the question. “He is originally from Bristol, and recently resided in Reading.”
“What makes you think he’s in London?”
“I received a letter from him today, delivered by messenger. He spoke of things only someone in London could have witnessed. It might have been someone else who reported back to him, but the timing makes it unlikely. If he’s not in London, he’s near.”
“What’s his name?” asked Leake again.
The very taste of it was foul in his mouth. “Silas Croach.”
Leake paused, his roving gaze arrested.
Grimly Max nodded. “It’s her husband.”
Bianca wasn’t sure when it happened, but she had grown rather enamored of Max’s idea to create a new brand of dinnerware.
“What do you think of the name Fortuna ware?” she asked Jennie. They had gone back to view the shop in Cheapside. It gave Bianca a happy feeling just to walk inside it. She admitted Max was probably right about the showroom, now that she’d met several London ladies and seen their homes. But this quaint shop appealed to her a great deal, too, and she found herself wanting to agree to the lease and rush back to Marslip to begin designing the new, simpler wares.
And perhaps some porcelain as well, despite how her father scoffed at it. Max’s boundless confidence was a heady thing.
“Fortuna ware? What’s that?” Jennie was opening cupboard doors and inspecting the drawers. Bianca had asked her to look over the shop with a critical working woman’s eye. “It sounds lovely.”
“Yes, doesn’t it?” Bianca stretched her arms in the cozy window embrasure, mentally arranging pieces on a table in her mind. She thought they ought to start with a simple green glaze, since everyone at Perusia was accustomed to that. She imagined a clean white tablecloth with the pale green dishes and candlesticks, painted yellow. A soup tureen was always impressive; yellow as well, she thought, to match the candlesticks. “It might be the name of this shop. Fortuna by Tate and Sons.”
“Selling what?” Jennie came to join her.
“Any kind of household pottery. Dinnerware, butter crocks, rouge pots. Not as fine as Perusia, though still quality.”
The maid’s eyes rounded. “New pottery! At the factory?”
Bianca didn’t actually know where Max intended to produce his new wares. He wanted to employ some of their current potters, though, and presumably glazers and painters as well. It would have to be near Marslip if he wanted to use them. “Somewhere,” she said vaguely. “We’re still refining the plan.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sure it’ll come out well, if you and Mr. St. James are in command.” The girl nodded confidently at Bianca’s startled look. “Aye, between the two of you, not even Mr. Tate would be able to oppose it!”
“Between the two of us,” echoed Bianca slowly. “What do you mean by that?”
Jennie blinked. “O-only that Mr. St. James is a clever one, ma’am, and a right smooth talker. Thérèse, Mrs. Farquhar’s maid, said he could lead an army if he put his mind to it. She used to know him before, I reckon.”
Bianca’s lips parted in astonishment. “What did she say about him?”
“All admiring!” cried Jennie hastily, sensing she’d spoken too freely. “She said Mrs. Farquhar thought him the most charming and daring fellow she knew, and spoke often of him.”
Bianca’s mouth flattened. That sounded innocent enough, but she’d sensed Clara admired Max a little too much at times. “What else?”
“That Mrs. Farquhar thinks you’re a very fortunate woman, to have him for your husband.” Jennie blushed bright pink. “Even Thérèse thinks he’s extremely handsome.”
“Well.” Bianca cleared her throat. Her maid ought not to have gossiped so much, but she was at fault, too, for asking. “He is, obviously. Neither Thérèse nor Mrs. Farquhar is blind.”
Jennie gave a wide grin of relief. “No, ma’am!”
During this conversation Bianca had been staring out the window. Jennie’s revelations had distracted her, but now she realized she’d been looking at a man standing opposite the shop. And—she gave a start—he was looking back at her.
He was tall and lean, his shoulders a bit hunched, making her think he was an older man. His clothes were ordinary, sober colors with no lace, and his hat was tipped very rakishly, shadowing his face. But he was just standing there, leaning on a silver-topped walking stick, looking right at her.
“Jennie,” said Bianca, “do you recognize that man across the street?”
Jennie glanced up. “No, ma’am. Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. The fellow hadn’t moved.
The bell over the door jangled, and Bianca stepped back from the window to see who it was.
Lawrence, Max’s valet, stood there, hat in his hands. He bowed. “Ma’am.”
“Is aught wrong at home?” she asked in surprise.
He shook his head, although with a trace of a shamefaced grin. “Not at all, ma’am. Mr. St. James sent me to make sure all was well with you, and to bid you come straight home when you are done here. I—er—believe he’s eager to share some news with you.”
“Oh?” She couldn’t stop the instinctive smile. “What sort of news?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” said the valet, “but he was smiling when he sent me.”
Jennie giggled quietly, and Bianca’s smile widened. She knew Max had called at the Duke of Wimbourne’s house that morning, in hopes of seeing Perusia wares grace a ducal table. It would delight Papa to no end, and be a crowning glory to their London visit.
“Very well,” she said. “I’m almost done here.” She turned around to resume measuring the shelves, and caught sight of the man across the street again. And this time she would swear he tipped his hat at her, before turning and strolling off into the crowd.
“Lawrence,” she said on impulse, “do you know that man? In the brown coat.”
With a sudden movement the valet darted to the window, pressing his hands against the panes. He peered out intently. “No, ma’am,” he said, almost disappointed.
“Ah. He seemed interested in this shop.”
Lawrence’s hands fell to his sides. “Perhaps he also considered a lease on it, madam.”
She laughed in surprise. She ought to have thought of that. “Of course! No doubt. I fear he’s to be disappointed. Now, let me finish these measurements and we can go—Jennie, where did you put my measuring tape and notebook?”
But when she glanced at the window again, Lawrence was still staring intently into the street, his arms folded and legs apart. He looked unexpectedly imposing.
How curious.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The next day Max persuaded Bianca to come with him to meet the Duke of Wimbourne. “So you can assure your father I’ve not been wasting our time in London,” he told her.
She wrinkled her nose at him and laughed. “Lord Dalway’s order alone would persuade him of that, and you’ve got several more in hand!”
“Yes,” he replied, “but he will want your report as well, that I managed to conduct business without bringing shame upon Perusia.”
She gave him an arch look. “You must know my opinion of your efforts.”
“Why, I’ve never heard you express anything at all on that matter.” He leaned closer, resting his elbow on the breakfast table and smiling wickedly at her. “What is your opinion of me?”
She continued buttering her toast, but her lips curved teasingly. “Cleverer than I first thought, but perhaps not as clever as you think yourself.” She slanted a sparkling look at him as she took a tiny bite.
Max laughed. �
�No man is as clever as he thinks himself. Go on.”
“More sensible and pragmatic than I expected,” she allowed, “particularly given how you dressed when we met.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Thank you.”
Her cheeks turned pink. “Too handsome by half.”
He leaned even more forward. That beauty mark on her breast was just visible if he tilted his head to the right, and he did so. “How so, madam? Pray tell me more.”
“I will not. Saying that much has probably inflated your vanity to monstrous proportions.”
He smiled again. “Hearing such praise has indeed swelled my . . . vanity. I cannot swear to ‘monstrous proportions,’ of course, but it is quite large enough . . .” God. Bantering with her like this, hearing her call him handsome and clever and even sensible—possibly the highest praise she could give—had made him hard, just sitting at the breakfast table.
Peering at that beauty mark may have also played a part. He dreamed of kissing that mark again, as he’d done in Vauxhall.
Her lips parted as she took his meaning, and her blush became scarlet. “And you’re much too wicked,” she replied, but her voice had gone husky, the way it did every time he kissed her and touched her.
“My darling,” whispered Max with a meaningful look, “you have no idea how wicked I can be.” He gave her a slow smile as her bosom heaved. “I look forward to showing you, though.”
The door opened and Martha came in with the ironed newspapers. Bianca’s knife clattered on her plate and she jerked backward in her chair as Max resumed his normal posture. “Here they are, sir,” said the maid, laying the pages on the table. Martha was a fine London maid, never letting on that she saw anything.
“Come with me to Wimbourne House,” said Max, while Bianca was still flustered. He did want her to accompany him for all the reasons he’d listed, but also to keep her close. There had been no word from Leake, and Max had told him to send it immediately, no matter the time of day or night, if he discovered Croach. As long as that viper was out there, Max felt tense and edgy, though he was determined to hide it from his wife.
Lawrence had reported that a man had been staring at the shop in Cheapside yesterday while Bianca was there; she had seen him, but Lawrence had not got a good look at him. It only fueled Max’s suspicions that Croach himself was in London.
To what end, he did not know. And that made him all the more anxious to leave.
“Well . . .” Bianca cleared her throat as Martha refilled her chocolate cup and withdrew with the empty silver pot. “All right. If you wish.”
He caught her hand and kissed it. “I do wish. Most passionately.”
She blushed again, but he breathed easier. Whatever malignant intentions Croach had, he wouldn’t touch Bianca.
Bianca expected a duke’s home to dazzle and amaze her, and Wimbourne House did not disappoint.
It was by far the largest home she had ever seen, set close to the river. Max told her it had a large garden in the rear, with its own stairs to a landing on the Thames. She tried hard not to marvel as they were admitted and shown into a small parlor of such beauty, she could hardly believe it, and she whispered as much to Max.
“Wait until you see the rest of the house,” was his reply.
And he was right. She could barely keep from gaping in awe at the artwork, the graceful furnishings upholstered in silk, the plush carpets. The floors were marble, and the chimneypiece was the most ornate sculpture she had ever seen. Only when she caught sight of herself in a tall, golden-framed mirror did she realize how wide her eyes were.
The duke himself came in, rubbing his hands together. “St. James! Of all the people.”
“My Lord Duke.” Max bowed reverently low. Bianca followed, dipping into a curtsy until her knee almost touched the floor.
The duke laughed and cuffed Max in the shoulder, grinning. He was about Max’s age, to Bianca’s surprise, and had a mischievous air. He was tall and lanky, with a face that was amiable rather than handsome. His clothes, though incomparable in quality, flapped around him as though they’d been made for someone else. “Present your lady to me.”
Max drew her forward. “My wife, Mrs. St. James, Your Grace.”
“Indeed.” Wimbourne eyed her warmly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, madam.”
“Thank you, sir,” she replied. “It is my great delight to make yours.”
Wimbourne raised his brows at Max. “Well!” He paced to the sofa and flung himself on it. “Let’s see this chinaware that nearly made Lady Dalway weep.” And Max had Lawrence bring forward the velvet-lined chest he had built to carry around his sample of Perusia wares.
Now Bianca understood his desire for velvet boxes. In this room beautiful enough for angels to occupy, Papa’s finest wares emerged from the ivory velvet trays like rare jewels being unveiled for the first time—like something an angel might dine from. The scarlet glaze on the egg cups blazed like liquid rubies against the pale fabric. Max lifted out the gravy boat as if he were presenting a holy relic, its gilded rim glowing in the sunlight. Plate after plate, bowl after bowl, Max laid down a full setting for two on the polished table nearby, complete with teapot and cups on saucers with fluted rims, finishing it off with a delicate compotier, shaped like a bell flower and supported by three nymphs, garlanded with flowers and ivy.
It was the replacement for the one Bianca had thrown at her father, all those weeks ago when he’d been arguing that Cathy ought to marry Max. Bianca said a silent apology to that destroyed compotier, and to Mr. Murdoch, the modeler who had made it, but she also thought this new one surpassed the previous in every way. If she hadn’t smashed his first try, he might not have been pushed to create this one.
The duke was struck by it, too. He picked it up and examined it from all sides. “Marvelous,” he murmured.
Max smiled faintly. “I thought you might like it.”
“You would,” said the duke with a twitch of his mouth. “Well! Of course I’ll have some. Can’t have Dalway’s table finer than mine. Why was he given precedence, I’d like to know?”
“You were away from town,” said Max. “I left my card, and called as soon as you sent for me.”
Holding one of the egg cups up to the light, the duke scoffed. “Next time, I want to know first. God above! This glaze has a shine like nothing I’ve ever seen!”
“It is like nothing you’ve ever seen,” Max told him. “Mrs. St. James only completed her formulation of that scarlet glaze a few weeks ago. You’re holding one of the first examples of it, and if you were to order a set of it, you would be the first to lay your table with it.”
Wimbourne lowered the cup and looked at Bianca. Her heart lodged in her throat at his astonished regard. “You created this, madam? You?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she said.
Wimbourne looked at the cup again, then at Max, who still wore a vaguely self-satisfied smile. “You clever scoundrel,” he muttered. “I’ll be damned! Simply incredible.”
“How many settings, Your Grace?” asked Max smoothly. “If I might say so, the larger orders will be given precedence in the factory.”
Wimbourne snorted. “Trying to extort me to order more, are you? How many settings for Dalway?”
“Twenty.”
“I’ll have thirty, and a dessert service, too.” He snatched up the egg cup again. “You, Mrs. St. James? You formulated this color?”
“Yes, sir,” she repeated. “I formulated most of the glazes for Perusia.”
The duke gave her a long look. “I always knew you were a sly one, St. James.”
Max began replacing the dishes in the chest. “As you say, Your Grace.”
“In ten years, I’ve never known you to place a losing bet.” The duke shook his head. “Incredible. And now I hear rumors Carlyle is ill.”
Max paused. “Is he?”
“Yes, more ill than usual.” Wimbourne eyed him closely. “You’re his heir, are you not?”
“Second,” said Max. He cleared his throat and closed the lid of the chest, motioning for the waiting Lawrence to take it away. “Captain St. James, my cousin, is heir presumptive.”
“Right, right.” The duke tapped a quick tattoo on his knees with both hands. “Still, one never knows. An army fellow, isn’t he? In Scotland? Dangerous country, Scotland.”
“Yes.”
“Imagine a Scottish army captain becoming duke! Wouldn’t that set London on its ear?”
“Stranger things have happened, I’ve no doubt.”
Bianca watched the conversation with interest. Max had never said a word about the Duke of Carlyle, beyond whispering his family connection in her father’s ear. At first she had assumed it would make him arrogant, and then she had suspected he didn’t mention it to avoid provoking her. And now she had the distinct thought that Max did not want to discuss it at all.
Which was . . . odd, for someone who had used it so blatantly.
“Stranger, yes,” said the duke thoughtfully. “Not as odd as the Durham case, I grant you. The heir was practically a shopkeeper!”
“He seems to have pulled it around rather admirably. As I expect the captain to do, when His Grace finally departs this mortal vale.”
“No doubt,” agreed the duke amiably, rising. “Ah—I almost forgot to inquire after Mrs. Bradford! I hope she’s well.”
Max had already got to his feet, ready to leave. At the name, he stiffened with a jerk. “Yes.” He bowed. “Thank you for seeing us, Your Grace.”
“Excellent. Give her my best regards.” Beaming, the duke bounced on his feet, offering Bianca his hand. “My thanks for bringing your lovely wife and those incredible dishes. Did you really create that glaze, madam? It’s perfection.”
“It is,” said Max, his voice clipped. “Good day, Wimbourne.”
“And to you,” replied the duke, amused. He bowed to Bianca. “Good day, Mrs. St. James.”
Bianca almost had to run to keep up with Max’s strides. By the time they reached the carriage, she was out of breath. “What happened?” she managed to ask, fanning herself.
About a Rogue EPB Page 21
