She lowered her voice, mindful of the servants. “What is wrong? Tell me something.”
He yanked on one boot. “It’s a family matter.”
Her mouth fell open. “Family? Is—is it the Duke of Carlyle?”
His gaze flashed toward her, then just as quickly away. “No.”
“Mrs. Bradford,” Bianca guessed after a moment’s frantic thought.
Max’s head came up. “What did you say?”
She blinked in astonishment at his tone, practically a snarl. “Your aunt. Is it about her?”
He jammed his other foot into a boot and rose. He came to her and cupped her face in both hands and for a moment, appeared to struggle for words. “I—I don’t have time to explain now.” He looked anguished. “Can you trust me?”
“Yes,” she replied at once. She was done doubting him.
He gave her a scorching kiss. “Thank you, love,” he breathed, and then he was gone, his boots echoing on the stairs, calling for Mary to bring his greatcoat and hat.
Bianca hurried after him in time to see him swing into the saddle of his horse. He wheeled the animal around, saying something to Lawrence. He caught sight of her and touched his hat before riding out of the yard.
She was left staring after him, her hand still upraised and her mind a whirl. “Lawrence,” she demanded as the valet retreated to the house, “where has Mr. St. James gone?”
“Stoke on Trent,” he replied. “’Tis all I know, madam. He bade me send for his horse, and questioned me about the man who brought the message.”
“Who brought it?”
“Someone from Mr. Leake, madam.” Lawrence must have guessed her next furious question, for he put up his hands. “Mr. Leake is a man from London, an investigator of sorts. Mr. St. James hired him some time ago, and has been waiting for his report ever since. He told me I was to notify him immediately if anything came from Leake, no matter the time.”
“A man from London!” Bianca was staggered. “Has this man been working for Mr. St. James since we were in London?” she demanded.
Lawrence’s gaze veered away from her. “Aye, ma’am. Since well before, I think.”
That meant Max had hired him months ago—and to search for what? Even if he’d not had time to explain tonight, he might have mentioned it last night, or the night before, or any of the dozens of other times they’d talked since arriving home. Since consummating their marriage. Since Vauxhall. They had spent hours pleasing each other, whispering to each other, laughing together. They had discussed mundane things, important things, matters dear and sensitive.
But not this.
“He bade me not tell you anything,” Lawrence said in apology. “I understood it was a matter of very personal importance to him.”
And Bianca was left to wonder, in the deepening shadows of twilight, just what her husband had kept from her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“It’s not like St. James,” grumbled Papa. “I can’t believe he’s run off!”
“It’s unpardonable,” said Aunt Frances tartly. “Mark my words, he’s up to no good, see if he isn’t!”
Bianca picked at her plate and said nothing. She had no earthly idea what to say.
It had been two whole days since Max bolted out of Marslip with nothing but the clothes on his back. She had sat up waiting until the clock striking midnight had startled her awake, and Jennie had come, in her nightdress and yawning, to urge her to go to bed. She assured Bianca that someone would wake her the moment he returned, and Bianca had slept, fitfully, in her own bed for the first time in several days.
The next morning she’d sent Lawrence into Stoke on Trent, intent on getting at least a word of explanation. She told the valet to ask four specific questions, and not to come home until he got answers. She paced Poplar House all morning, unable to concentrate on anything, until Lawrence returned to say that Max was not in Stoke at all.
“He left at dawn with the same bloke who brought the message,” Lawrence had reported. “Mr. Barkley at the Foxes said they asked for their horses to be made ready at first light, and a sack of provisions left waiting. He never saw them go. The stable boy says Mr. St. James gave him a shilling and told him to go back to sleep, but said naught of where they were going.”
Max had left no word, sent no note. And again he didn’t come home.
For the first time in years, Papa had come to Poplar House, when neither she nor Max went to the factory the second day. His concern that there was illness in the house dissolved into amazement and then outrage when Bianca confessed she had no idea where her husband was or why he’d left. Papa told her to come to Perusia Hall for dinner, and, listless, she had agreed.
She had regretted every moment of it, though.
“I don’t know about that,” argued Papa with an uneasy glance at Bianca. “But it’s very strange. Are you certain the valet has no idea?”
Bianca shook her head.
“A man’s valet always knows more than he lets on.” Frances took a bite of roasted goose, and then fed a piece of the same to Trevor, who sat panting beside her chair. “Bring the man in and we’ll demand some sense from him.”
“I am persuaded he does not know,” said Bianca quietly. Lawrence had grown sweet on Jennie; in the course of the last two days, as Max’s absence grew long and strained, he had pleaded not to be turned off, and become a font of information.
Afraid of being dismissed, Lawrence had sworn he had no idea where Max had gone or why, and offered up that Max had indeed led a wild and debauched life in London before proposing to marry a Perusia heiress. He told her all about his previous employer, a friend of Max’s who had lost twenty-eight thousand pounds in a single night at the Vauxhall gaming tables—in company with Max—and been forced to flee London. He confessed that the lease of their house in London had been held by Lord Cathcart, for his mistress, and that the house had required extensive cleaning to be habitable, after the scandalous parties held there—some of which Max had attended. He admitted that Max had sent him to Cheapside when Bianca was measuring the shop there, with a directive to watch out for a man Lawrence knew only as a person from Max’s past who posed a threat.
He admitted he had been told to keep watch for any letters from Reading, which were to be delivered immediately, and he said they had upset Max, though he claimed not to know why. And he confessed that Max had strictly instructed him never to let anyone, most especially Bianca, know about any of it.
That last had cut deeply. Bianca had known her husband had a scandalous past—the women in Vauxhall proved that—and she was not surprised that his friends were scandalous, too. While he might reasonably have kept quiet about it in the early, difficult days of their marriage, she had thought they were honest with each other now.
Yet Max had never said a word.
“He must know something!” Frances refused to let go of her belief that Lawrence was lying. She aimed her fork at Bianca. “You are too soft on your servants, my dear. Question him sternly!”
Bianca, who knew her great-aunt was not harsh at all to her own servants, gave her a jaundiced look. “I did. He knows nothing.”
“I still have confidence there will be a good explanation when St. James returns,” put in Papa. “He’s not been disloyal or untrustworthy before.”
Trust me. Max had asked her to trust him, time and time again. He had never betrayed her before, but she was struggling to continue trusting. Surely there must be a good reason for this; there must be. She sipped her wine in silence.
“I’ve had another letter from Cathy,” said Papa in forced good cheer, trying to change the subject. “She is coming home.”
“It is about time,” said Frances. “Gallivanting about Staffordshire without a thought for her people at home!”
Bianca roused herself. “When do you expect her, Papa?”
“Oh, soon, soon,” he assured them. “Within the fortnight, I expect. She seemed intent on it. Expressed her astonishment at all that�
�s happened here.”
Meaning her marriage. The one she could no longer explain with professions of love for a man who had, apparently, abandoned her. Bianca drained her wineglass and beckoned the servant to refill it.
In the taut silence came the distant crunch of carriage wheels. Bianca twitched to alertness. It was unusual for visitors to arrive at this time of evening. Twilight was fading, and the roads around Marslip were treacherous enough in the day. Max had left on horseback, but a carriage might be safer now . . .
Papa heard it, too. He glanced at her as he helped himself to more goose. “What a fine joke if that should be your sister already, eh?” He chuckled, too heartily. “Summoned by the mention of her name! They must have made excellent time from Wolverhampton . . .”
Bianca was listening as intently as any pointer. Frances began muttering and clucking to Trevor, who was growling, and Bianca hissed at both of them to be silent. Shocked, the older woman glared at her.
“Maxim,” wailed a voice outside. A female voice.
With a lurch Bianca leapt up from the table and ran. Papa followed at her heels, as Frances shouted at them to wait for her. She flew out of the dining room and down the corridor, into the spacious front hall, where she stopped in astonishment.
The butler was attempting to force a wild woman out the door. Her black hair trailed past her waist in a tangle. Her coarse gray dress was virtually rags, slipping off her shoulders and hanging loosely around her figure. She was as thin as a stick, her collarbones prominent as she writhed like a feral creature in Mr. Hickson’s grip.
“What the devil?” exclaimed Papa.
“Maxim,” wailed the woman again, her long, wraithlike arms flailing. “Wo ist er? Maxim!”
“Merciful heavens,” said Frances, nonplussed.
In a trance Bianca walked forward. “He’s not here,” she said clearly to the woman. “Who are you?”
Tears filled the stranger’s eyes. “Maxim,” she screamed once more, before collapsing like a puppet whose strings had been cut, sliding through Mr. Hickson’s arms into a shaking huddle on the floor.
Aside from her sobs, the hall was deathly silent. Mr. Hickson hovered uncertainly over her, but now the woman looked defenseless and broken. Papa appeared thunderstruck, and Frances had both hands clasped to her bosom in shock.
Maxim. This woman knew him. Bianca’s breath rasped in her lungs. Slowly she went down on her knees and touched the woman’s shoulder. It set off another scream, and the woman scrambled backward until she hit the wall.
A big fellow lumbered into the open doorway, panting hard and clutching a handkerchief to his cheek. Blood spotted his waistcoat. “Sorry, mate,” he said to Mr. Hickson as he reached down for the woman. “Come on, now. Here you are, ma’am.” He spoke kindly enough as he tried to lift her from the ground.
“Wo ist er?” sobbed the woman, flinching from his touch. “Fass mich nicht an!”
“What the devil is this?” Papa recovered from his surprise and strode forward. “Who are you, sir?”
“William Leake, at your service,” said the man. He removed the handkerchief from his face to bow, and Bianca’s eyes widened at the deep scratches that still ran red with blood. “Here to see Mr. St. James, if you please.”
“He’s not here,” said Papa indignantly. “Who are you, and who is this woman?”
Mr. Leake did not appear pleased by Max’s absence. “This is Mrs. Margareta Croach,” he said. “Where might I find St. James?”
Bianca had been staring at the woman. Beneath the dirty and bedraggled exterior, looking past the hollows in her cheeks and the jutting bones of her arms, she must have been a beautiful woman once. She could not be more than forty years old. Tears had left tracks in the dirt on her face, and when her head lolled back in despair, Bianca caught her breath as a sudden thought struck her.
“He’s away from home,” she said, softly but clearly. “Away. Do you understand?”
The woman’s lashes fluttered, and she stared at Bianca with dull onyx eyes.
“Greta,” said Bianca. The eyes flickered again, and fastened on her. “Are you Greta?”
A deep breath shuddered through her. “Ja.”
“A German woman?” whispered Papa loudly. “What is this?”
Gingerly Bianca stretched out her hand. The woman, Greta, eyed her warily. “I am Max’s wife. Maxim. Wife.”
With a jerk the woman seized her hand. “Maxim . . .” she whimpered.
“Bianca,” said Papa plaintively.
She held up a hand to quiet him. “Mr. Leake,” she said, eyes fixed on Greta. “Did you send for Max two days ago?”
“Aye.” Leake let out his breath. He had gone back to trying to staunch the blood still welling from his face. “I told him to wait in Stoke on Trent but he’s not there. If he’s not here, either . . . I suppose he couldn’t wait and took off after me.”
“I suppose so.” Slowly, still holding Greta’s hand as if the woman might wrench away, Bianca rose. “Won’t you come in?”
Mr. Leake frowned. “Not sure I’d take her inside, ma’am. She flew into a fit when I said we were going to find St. James. Until then she was docile. His name set her off.”
“Well, he’s not here, and I cannot put her outside,” said Bianca, keeping her voice soft and even. Nothing to startle Greta, who struggled awkwardly to her feet. “Come sit with me,” she urged the woman, leading her slowly into the sitting room nearby.
“Bianca,” said Papa sternly.
“Shh,” she said. Greta had flinched at Papa’s voice. “We’ll wait for Max. Are you hungry?”
Fear filled Greta’s face. She shook her head.
“All right. Sit here.” Bianca guided her to the settee. Greta perched warily on the edge. To Bianca’s surprise, Aunt Frances stepped forward and swung her own shawl around the woman, tucking it gently in place. Bianca glanced at her in gratitude, and her aunt stepped back, her expression unreadable.
“Where is St. James?” Papa was demanding loudly of Mr. Leake, in the hall outside the parlor.
“I got no idea,” replied the other man. “When he wasn’t at the Two Foxes, I thought he must have come home. It took a fair bit longer to reach this place than I thought. Your roads are an abomination.”
“And who are you?” Papa was so agitated, he didn’t even agree about the roads.
“William Leake, thief-taker,” was the answer.
Papa stormed into the doorway. “Bianca, come away from that woman at once!”
“No, Papa,” said Bianca. “Aunt Frances, send for a glass of wine.” She continued holding the woman’s hand as her aunt rushed for the bell.
“What the bloody hell is going on?” Papa barked.
Bianca didn’t blink at his curse. “Be calm, Papa. I believe I know who she is. But we should wait for Max.” Jane scurried in, wide-eyed, with a small glass of claret, which Bianca handed to Greta.
“And where has he gone?” Papa retorted. “Two days, and not so much as a message to his wife!”
“I have every confidence he’ll be here soon,” she said evenly. This was the person Max had been seeking, whom he had raced off to find without even pausing to explain. Indeed, she thought she heard hoofbeats approaching now.
A few minutes later she was proven correct. Hickson’s voice echoed in the hall, and running footsteps. Max caught himself in the doorway, let out an exclamation of relief and rushed forward.
At the sight of him Greta made a noise like a lamed animal. She dropped the glass and scrambled off the settee.
Bianca lunged for the claret, setting the glass aside with only a small spill. Greta had flung herself at Max, collapsing to her knees and throwing her arms around his legs. At once Max sank down, his greatcoat pooling around them. He clasped Greta to him, resting his dark head next to hers and murmuring to her as she sobbed in renewed vigor.
“St. James,” said Papa, sounding dazed. “Explain this.”
Still stroking the woman’s hair, M
ax raised his head. He looked terrible, his complexion gray and exhausted, his hair flattened and filthy, every inch of him covered in dust. “This is my aunt. My mother’s sister, Greta.”
“Your aunt!” Papa reared back. “What’s happened to her?”
“You’ve been searching for her for months,” said Bianca numbly. “Why didn’t you tell me, Max?”
He turned desolate eyes to her. “Can’t you guess? Because she’s mad.”
Chapter Thirty
It took some time to settle the household.
Max explained in spare terms. His aunt had taken ill after her second marriage; a severe melancholy, the doctor said. She drank to excess, and fell into stupors that lasted days. There had been doctors and treatments in three spas, to no improvement. Greta wasted away and began speaking only German, the language of her youth. Her husband had her confined to an asylum.
Bianca thought there was much more to it than that. Max handled his aunt as protectively as if she were a child, and indeed she seemed as defenseless as one. She sagged heavily against Max’s side on the settee, her hand clutching a handful of his coat. Under his urging she ate a few bites of bread, and then fell asleep with a suddenness that astonished everyone.
Papa took himself off, saying he needed some port to calm his nerves. Frances slipped out of the room as well, and came back several minutes later to report that she had told the maids to prepare a room for Greta.
Max roused himself. By the end of his story he looked half-asleep himself. “No,” he said, his voice rusty. “I’ll take her home.” He stopped, and looked at Bianca. “If you’ll permit me to take her there.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Frances with her usual brusqueness. “This woman is exhausted. Let Ellen wash her and put her to bed.”
Max shook his head. “I can’t leave her.”
“Of course not,” replied Frances tartly. “I’ve already sent for Jennie and your man. You shall have Bianca’s old room.”
About a Rogue EPB Page 25
