“Does she?” Bianca raised her brows. “Did you ever see it?”
He closed his mouth in chagrin. “Of course I didn’t.”
“If she hits Frances with the fork, it won’t be anything Aunt hasn’t had coming for years,” Bianca added. “But I expect my aunt can look after herself.”
Max laughed, his eyes warm and full of love.
Bianca smiled and looked away. She’d heard it, when he said he loved her, but she had not responded to it, and he had not repeated it.
She thought she loved him, but his secrecy had been a blow. Even worse, he had planned never to tell her about Greta at all. Part of her understood completely, and part of her was angry that he would think that way, even after their closeness. If he had said he meant to tell her later, if he had confessed that he hadn’t known how to tell her and that had kept him silent, she would have believed and forgiven all.
But he had said never, and that was a very long time to keep something so significant from her. She still didn’t know how to talk to him about it.
“I’m going to Poplar House,” she told him. They had remained at Perusia Hall, as had Frances, to avoid upsetting Greta again. Despite being closely monitored every hour of the day, so far Greta seemed more like someone who had survived a terrifying ordeal than a madwoman. Max had reminded her, grimly, that it guaranteed nothing, but even he agreed it was a promising sign that Greta hadn’t been violent or wild.
“Will you return before dinner?” Max asked, looking a little disappointed that she was leaving.
“Likely not. I have so many letters to write.” Not only had Lady Dalway and Mrs. Farquhar sent very gracious notes, she had decided to tell Cathy everything. Hopefully that would cause the wave of astonishment and dismay to break before Cathy came home, and spare Bianca the worst of it, but either way she had to be honest with her sister. After being so hurt by Max’s lies by omission, she had resolved not to commit the same sin herself.
“You could write them here,” he offered. “I promise to be very quiet and not rustle my papers.”
She laughed, but shook her head. She needed a little space from him, for what she had to write.
“Very well. I’ll be here.” He masked his disappointment gallantly, gesturing at his papers on the table. Bianca recognized his plan for Fortuna ware. They had discussed it often since London, and she knew he hoped to get her father’s approval soon.
Max caught her hand to his lips, then turned it over and pressed his lips for a longer kiss on the inside of her wrist. “’Til then, my love.”
She smiled and touched his cheek. Yes, she did love him. No one else made her smile like he did.
Max watched her go, his chest brimming with love—and tight with longing. Bianca had been kinder and more compassionate to Greta than he could have ever hoped. If he’d thought himself in love with her before, now he realized how boundless and deep it was, to love someone the way he cared for his wife. After a lifetime of keeping everyone at arm’s length, warding them off with caustic humor and rakish wildness, he had found someone who stood by him even at the risk of madness and lunacy. He desperately wanted to see her turn to him with that warm, glowing smile on her face, the way she had after the cricket, when he could swear love had been hanging in the air between them, unspoken but real nonetheless.
But he’d made a mistake not telling Bianca about Greta, and a bigger one by asking her to trust him before impulsively haring off after Leake instead of biding his time in Stoke. Leake’s message said only that he’d discovered where Greta was; he’d told Max to wait for him in Stoke, while he made a rescue and spirited Greta there. He hadn’t said where she was being held, or how he meant to get her. And like an idiot, Max had bullied the information out of Leake’s man and taken off after the thief-taker, both from impatience and from panic that he’d not had time to arrange what to do with Greta when he found her.
In one way, he was glad he’d gone and seen for himself the bleakness of Mowbry Manor, the private hell where Greta and several other people were confined. It had persuaded him fully that he would indeed kill Croach, prison be damned, if the man tried to send her back to a place like that. The screams of the poor souls locked up there would haunt him forever.
But going had turned out to cost him any chance of breaking the news delicately to the Tates. Leake had handily bribed one of the keepers to sneak Greta out, and then he’d brought her to Stoke—and then right into Perusia Hall, without any warning at all, because Max had not been waiting for him at Stoke, where he should have been.
Well. He could not change any of that. His only choice was to continue onward, proving himself a hundred more times if he must. It had been such a terrible mistake, he deserved to suffer. He meant to atone for his stupidity by being the husband Bianca deserved, and proving he’d meant his apologies in every way. And he would wait, to the last iota of his patience, for her to trust him again, no matter how hard it was to keep from professing his love every day.
As Bianca’s footsteps faded, Max reviewed some of his notes, and went back to work on the Fortuna plan. This was the only way he knew to restore Samuel Tate’s confidence. After Bianca’s, Samuel’s was the faith he craved most. His father-in-law hadn’t spoken to him since that dreadful night, which had been a sharp reproof. It was too late to undo the marriage, but Samuel could easily push him out of Perusia, not to mention deny him a chance to launch Fortuna.
He had worked for some time when the door burst open and Greta flew in, her face a mask of terror. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, leaping to his feet.
But he knew.
The keeper at Mowbry Manor had screamed at him, as Max strode away after punching the man in the face, that Mr. Croach would see to him, see if he wouldn’t. Max had been waiting every hour since then for Croach to appear in some way, staying in Perusia Hall protectively near Greta, working in the sitting room instead of going down the hill to the offices. Now it appeared the viper himself had come.
Announced only by the sound of a footstep outside the door, Silas Croach appeared. He had once been a handsome man, tall and lean with an oily charm to him. He looked a bit older than Max remembered, but his eyes were the same icy pale green, and his thin smile was as cold and threatening as ever. Greta flung herself behind Max with a low moan.
“Mr. St. James.” He made a slow bow that was somehow ominous. “I began to fear for your health, when you did not reply to my letters.”
“As you see,” replied Max, “I am in perfect health. I simply had nothing to say to you.”
“Hmm.” Croach smiled wider. “One hopes you will continue to enjoy such excellent health, in Newgate. Kidnapping a woman is a serious offense, particularly when that woman is in desperate need of the care she was receiving.”
“A point of fact,” said Max. He widened his stance and let his hands curl into loose fists. “I did not kidnap her. Nor, I believe, did anyone, as she came away quite willingly.”
“She has no free will,” said Croach sharply.
“Not when dosed with laudanum,” agreed Max. The local doctor, who had come yesterday morning, said Greta showed signs of poisoning, including laudanum. “And something else that made her see horrific visions. Belladonna, perhaps?”
From Croach’s small twitch, Max thought the doctor’s guess had been right. “When she flies into madness, laudanum is the only way to calm her. Don’t interfere with what you don’t understand, my boy.”
Greta, who had gone stone-still at the mention of the drugs, now poked Max in the back. He put his hand behind him, trying to reassure her without diverting his attention from Croach. Where had Frances Bentley gone? Bianca had said the two of them were making cheese toast this morning. “You’re lying.”
Croach simply smiled at this accusation. “She was under a doctor’s care,” he said. “I only gave her what she needed.”
“Close your mouth,” he growled. Greta’s fingers dug into his back, as if preventing him from attacking Croach. �
��I promised I’d kill you if you hurt her, and I’m a man of my word.”
The other man’s gaze was chilling. “Are you? I suppose you might try. If you strike me, it would look very unfortunate to the court. But then . . .” He looked past Max to Greta, and his face grew terrifying. “Madness does run in your blood. A fit of violence is to be expected in these lamentable circumstances. Your aunt is the same way when she becomes overwrought. Perhaps you should both be confined, for the safety of all.”
Greta wheezed. Max reached behind him to comfort her, wishing Bianca or Frances were here to take her away. Not only should she never have to see Croach again, she was clinging to his back with a grip of iron. “Get out of this house,” he told Croach in a low voice.
The other man raised his brows. “As you wish. I shall take my wife with me, of course.” He held out his hand and Greta shrank behind Max, shaking like a leaf. “I expected you would be troublesome about it,” he said to Max. “Some men from Mowbry Manor are waiting outside, to convey her safely back to her room there. And I expect Dr. Hawes will have something to say about your attack on him as well, to the magistrate.”
“Summon him. I shall appeal for assistance from the Duke of Carlyle,” replied Max. “My cousin.”
For the first time Croach seemed to understand that he did not hold an unassailable position. He advanced on Max furiously. “She’s my wife,” he snarled. “Either she’s mad, and should be confined for her own safety and that of everyone around her, or she’s recovered, in which case I demand her return, so she can fulfill her wifely duties.” He smiled at Greta, poisonously. “Come home with me, my dear.”
“Nahhhhh,” cried Greta.
“Try it.” Max spread his arms invitingly, ready to make good on his promise. “Come take her from me.”
“Get out!” screamed Greta, suddenly lurching out from behind him. “Get out!”
Croach stopped in his tracks. Max tried to hide his astonishment; he hadn’t heard an English word from her in years.
“Merciful heavens,” said Frances Bentley irately. “Will someone whip this revolting man from the property, or must I shoot him?”
She had come in from the side door. She held a pistol in her hand. And Bianca was with her.
As Croach stared at her, obviously trying to decipher her role in this scene, Frances added, very matter-of-factly, “I’ve already had the footmen chase off those men who came with him. Beastly characters, both of them. They seized poor Hickson and dragged him outside, which is disgraceful. They won’t be back, not unless they wish to be shot as well.”
“Well done, Aunt Frances,” said Bianca. “Are you hurt, Greta?” Slowly Greta shook her head. Bianca smiled encouragingly. “Won’t you come upstairs? You don’t have to see this man ever again.”
Croach’s veneer of civility dropped. He took a step toward Greta, but stopped when Aunt Frances cocked her pistol. “What you both fail to comprehend,” he spat, “is that Margareta is mine. She is my wife, and by God’s will she belongs to me. This man has attempted to cheat me of my rights under law!”
“Bosh,” said Aunt Frances scornfully. “Marriage laws are such rubbish. I never liked them before, and don’t see why I should start now.”
“I don’t think Greta’s mad at all,” remarked Bianca. “But I do think you’ve been abusing her, sir, dosing her with poisonous drugs so you could confine her to an asylum. I suppose you did that to be able to spend her fortune as you pleased.”
“Shut your mouth,” snapped Croach. “I acted in her best interests. You know nothing about madness or poisons or drugs!”
“No, I don’t know about madness,” said Bianca thoughtfully. “But I do know a bit about poisons, after working with all those glazing compounds. Chemistry is such an interesting study.”
“All right.” Croach was breathing hard but trying to maintain his control. “You chased off Dr. Hawes’s men, and you think an accusation of poisoning will frighten me away as well. It won’t. I have rights, damn you, and the law is on my side!”
“I suppose it will have to be murder, then.” Max stripped off his coat. He felt delusional himself, but also drunk on the thought of beating Croach to a cinder, whether or not it became murder. He’d dreamed of this. “Bianca darling, will you fetch a shovel?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Bianca. “We’ll put him in one of the kilns.”
Max blinked, startled. He had not expected that. Croach laughed after a moment. “I say, Maxim! A bloodthirsty little slut, ain’t she?”
“Not really,” said Bianca, as calmly as before. “There’s no reason to make such a mess. One good blow should incapacitate him long enough to carry him down the hill. Kiln four is ready to fire. Have Lawrence take his horse to Lichfield to sell, and no one will ever know he was here.”
This set Croach back on his heels. A frown creased his brow. “Be careful what you say, madam. Making threats will not stand you well.”
In reply she lifted the fire tongs she had been holding behind her skirt. “Our kilns are hot enough to melt glass, sir. In four days’ time there won’t be anything left of you but a pile of ash, nothing at all for a magistrate or coroner to investigate. It is not an empty threat.”
Croach glanced between them.
“If I were you,” said Max, “I would run.”
“Far, and fast,” added Bianca.
“Get out,” repeated Greta in a low growl.
“I wouldn’t mind shooting him,” announced Frances. “I have never liked this carpet and if we have to burn it in the kiln with the body, so much the better.”
Bianca’s lips twitched. Greta suddenly laughed. “Burn, burn, burn,” she declared in delight. “Silas will burn!”
That, more than anything, seemed to unnerve Croach. “Silence,” he snarled at her, but Greta took a step toward him, and he stopped.
“You poisoned me,” she said, slowly but clearly. “You can burn.”
“For pity’s sake. Hold my spare,” said Frances to Bianca, handing over her second pistol. “Goodbye, Mr. Croach.” She raised her pistol, and Croach gave a shout before sprinting from the room. Max took off after him, only stopping when Croach was galloping away, glancing behind him with a mixture of terror and hatred.
He stood, breathing hard, and watched until Croach was out of sight. It wasn’t the last of the man, unfortunately, but Max would be ready for him next time. Leake had uncovered some of the mad doctors Croach had hired, at least one of whom stood accused of poisoning a man into madness at the instigation of his mother, over a planned engagement the mother disapproved of. Dr. Hawes at Mowbry Manor would also no doubt suffer an inspection by the local justice of the peace.
Max turned back toward the house. God above. Never had he been so astonished in his life, between Mrs. Bentley threatening to shoot Croach and Bianca coolly planning to shove the man’s corpse into a kiln to dispose of it.
And Greta had spoken English. Combined with the doctor’s diagnosis that she showed signs of laudanum dosing, perhaps Bianca was right, and Greta wasn’t really mad at all. She’d stood up to her husband after he’d almost killed her.
Feeling lighter than he could ever remember, Max walked back inside. He found Greta on the settee with Frances Bentley, chattering away in a mixture of German and English, more animated than he’d seen her in . . . forever. The pistols lay on the side table, and Bianca was pouring small glasses of port for all of them. At his entrance, she grinned and handed him one. Max was astonished that his hand shook, while hers were steady. He threw back the drink with one gulp.
Greta leapt up. “Silas?”
“Er ist gegangen,” he replied, then again, “He’s gone.”
“Gut,” she said. “Good!”
Max laughed, relief and joy.
“Good for him, you mean,” remarked Frances, sipping her port.
“And I hope he knows it,” added Bianca. “Would you really have shot him, Aunt?”
“Of course I would have!” The olde
r woman frowned at her. “I looked forward to it, if you must know.”
“Right,” murmured Max. He picked up the pistols. “I’ll take care of these.”
“They aren’t loaded,” said Bianca.
“The first one is,” retorted Frances. “I haven’t loaded a pistol in years! It took too long to do both.”
Bianca laughed. “Well, I am sure Papa will be relieved that we didn’t shoot indoors, and aren’t going to burn the carpet. He would have to buy a new one, which he would complain of to no end.”
“He could hardly choose an uglier one,” murmured Frances with a sniff. “I shall have to hope someone spills a decanter of wine on it, I suppose.” Greta broke into peals of laughter.
Max stood in silent amazement, a pistol in each hand, watching the three of them. He had feared they would revile him for bringing a madwoman into their family. Instead there sat Greta beside them, supported even to the point of violence, and her venomous husband was the one chased off the property. “You are the most remarkable women I’ve ever met,” he said, humbled.
“Yes,” said Frances serenely. “I trust you won’t forget it again.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The furor over Croach had barely died down two days later.
Papa, ranting about dangerous villains, instituted a patrol of armed watchmen around all the grounds of Perusia, including Poplar House and the village. He upbraided the servants as well, including a despairing Mr. Hickson, who had been lured outside and kept there by Mr. Croach’s madhouse conspirators. Aunt Frances told him off for that, but Papa didn’t relent until Greta appealed to him for understanding.
Bianca thought her father was developing a soft spot for Greta. As her health recovered and her English improved, Greta was a very striking woman. Bianca caught Papa sneaking looks at her during dinner.
Aunt Frances had overruled Max’s protests and decreed that Greta would stay with her. “Everyone is at the potteries all day except me,” she said. “She would be desperately lonely at Poplar House. Why shouldn’t she take my second-best bedchamber? If that horrid Croach comes sniffing around again, she’ll be out of sight at Ivy Cottage.”
About a Rogue EPB Page 27
