Page 80 of About a Rogue
“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.”
