Page 63 of About a Rogue
Until that moment, Max had been in uncommonly good spirits. He had several more potential orders, thanks in part to Serafina’s raving praise of the scarlet dishes, and thanks in part to his diligent schedule of calls. He’d visited every last friend and acquaintance he had in London—everyone who could afford a service from Perusia, anyway. On each call he brought a velvet-lined box with a select few pieces, and left a printed, hand-colored trade card in his wake. An old mate of his was a struggling artist and had been happy to take on the lowly commission, which resulted in Max possessing trade cards far above the usual in artistic quality.
If there was one thing Max had learned in his lean and impoverished years, it was that people with money wanted everyone to know they had money. Rare was the miser who squirreled away his wealth and lived modestly; far more likely were people who lived a life they thought reflected their status.
As he had expected, people wanted Perusia scarlet dinnerware.
So he arrived home freshly buoyed by a request from the Duke of Wimbourne to wait upon him with samples the following day, eager to tell Bianca about it at dinner. They were returning to Marslip soon, and an order from Wimbourne would be the crowning achievement.
And then Lawrence ruined it all. “Here, sir,” said the man, holding out the thin letter.
In the blink of an eye, Max’s mood plummeted. He stared at it for a long moment. “When did it arrive?”
“This morning, not long after you left.”
Max nodded. He’d put Lawrence on guard for this very reason, but he had hoped against all hope that it wouldn’t be necessary. “Did Mrs. St. James see it?”
“No, sir. I intercepted it while she was still in her closet, writing letters.”
He inhaled and exhaled slowly, grateful for that much. Finally he took the letter. “Who delivered it?”
Lawrence shook his head. “Didn’t see. Martha might know, but I didn’t know if you wanted me to question her, draw any attention to it.”
Damn it. He didn’t know, either. “Quite right,” he told the valet. “Thank you.”
Lawrence grinned in surprise. “Welcome you are, sir. Lord Percival never said thank you to me.”
Max managed a half-hearted smile. “I hope to inveigle you into staying with me, even when he recovers from his disgrace.”
The man winked, and then bowed. “Doing well so far, Mr. St. James.” He left, closing the door behind him.
Max’s smile faded before the latch had caught. The letter in his hand almost seemed to buzz with ominous intent, as if it might be written in poisonous ink that would infect him just by touching it. There was no other possibility, not coming this close on the heels of the previous letter, not while he was in London, uncomfortably close to the viper’s nest.
Gingerly he broke the seal and unfolded it.
It was as usual. The viper wanted money, and he tried to extract it with stinging lashes of guilt, shame, and fear. There was no implicit threat, but it was there all the same. Max would have simply burned it, as he’d done the last, but for the last paragraph.
Best regards to your bride. Such a lovely lady, in her royal garb at Vauxhall. Does she know you, Maxim? You look enamored of her, my boy. No doubt she would be very astonished to hear your secrets... I know you haven’t told her all about yourself...
Curse you, Max thought in violent fury. His fingers gripped the page so hard they cramped. He longed to tear the letter into shreds, to soak them in oil and set them on fire, and hope that the blaze consumed the soul of the man who wrote it.
He breathed deeply, forcing his mind to cool. It bore no postmark; the letter had been hand delivered, which meant it had come from London. Did that mean the author had returned to town, or had he sent it to one of his spies in London? He had always had a coven of shady characters willing to abet him.
And one of them had seen Bianca with him in Vauxhall.
With a sudden oath he strode across the room and flung open the door. He called for Lawrence as he rushed down the stairs, taking his hat and cloak at the door from Martha, who came running at his shout.
Lawrence all but fell down the stairs in his haste. “Yes, sir?”
“I must go out,” said Max, mindful of Martha at the rear of the hall. “Urgently.” He jerked his head as he flung his cloak around his shoulders.
Obediently Lawrence followed. This time, as he stepped outside, Max scanned the street swiftly. Everything looked as it should be, but it had been a long time since he’d laid eyes on his nemesis.
“When is Mrs. St. James expected home?” he asked the valet.
“I’m not sure, sir. Well before dinner.”
Max looked at him.
“Around four o’clock, I would suppose,” said the servant hastily. “That’s when she usually returns.”
