Chapter 7
Max strode down the wide stairs slowly, pointedly, allowing the calm that had sustained him through revolutions to overtake him. He framed his face into a ducal scowl, full of the bombastic nature of his particular breed and raised a hand. Despite the shouting that was occurring between his butler and the red-haired man in his foyer, Max said with cold authority, “Who the devil are you?”
The red-haired man froze, mid-beration, and whipped around. His hair was wild as were his clothes. He’d clearly ridden at breakneck speed to capture his sister and he’d made the terrible mistake of following her here. Clearly, he did not know yet how grievous of an error he had made.
He soon would. And it was a moment that Max looked forward to.
“Forgive the intrusion, Yer Grace,” the Scottish man said, smoothing a hand down his dust-stained great coat. “But I am Hamish Argyle, Laird Of Duncross.”
“Are you, indeed?” Max eyed him up and down, giving him the sort of look his father had taught him when a particularly rude person came making demands. It was a look that reminded a fellow he was speaking to a man with a title that was over four hundred years old.
“And why is a laird,” Max rolled the “r” with exaggeration, “ranting upon my doorstep.”
Hamish Argyle, Laird of Duncross, stared and his eyes narrowed, his pride easily pricked. “My sister has gone missing. I fear she has been taken. Her wits are poor.”
Max nearly choked on bile and a dry, outraged laugh. Poor wits? Diana Argyle’s wits were some of the finest he’d ever encountered. He doubted her brother’s wits were anywhere in the vicinity of superiority that hers were.
Still, he had a part to play. Max tsked sympathetically. “You must be terribly worried for her.”
“I am. I am!” The laird tugged on his dust-stained cloak. “She is here. In yer house. I ken it.”
Max glanced about, as if the lady might suddenly appear. He was damned determined that this ponce not have an inkling that Diana was, indeed, very near to hand.
“And how do you know it?” Max asked, at last staring down at him again.
Duncross drew himself up, clearly caught. “Reports,” he spat out quickly.
Max drew in a fortifying breath. This did not bode well. For Diana’s brother had taken it upon himself to send a man or men on ahead to catch up to her and then send word to the laird of her whereabouts.
Unfortunately, like his sister, Hamish Argyle, Laird of Duncross, was not a fool. He might not be as clever as his sister, but he was no idiot. . . alas.
“I confess, she was here.” There was no point in attempting to lie about the fact that Lady Diana had knocked upon his door and been given admittance.
“Have ye ruined her, Yer Grace?” Duncross demanded, his lip curling.
Max gaped. This was not the tactic he had anticipated. So, he did not deign to answer the comment but said rather coolly, “Do join me for coffee in my study and I’m sure we can sort this out.”
Laird Duncross drew himself up and nodded, relieved to clearly be seen on the same footing as a duke. “Verra well. But I’ll see my sister and take her home presently. The honor of the Argyles depends upon it.”
Honor. Oh, this was quite the path Duncross was choosing.
Max gave a dry smile as he moved towards the study. “Well, we can’t allow the denigration of your family honor, now can we?”
He gestured to the salon on his left. “Abbot, coffee if you please.”
Abbot, whose face was still mottled red with fury at all but being accosted, adjusted his cravat and nodded.
Duncross headed into the salon, head high.
Max paused, tempted to glance upward but resisting. Something twisted in the pit of his stomach. This man wasn’t going to go with a simple warning. That was clear from his disturbing presence. There was something poisonous about him. Even childish, as if he had never learned to control his emotions.
Max was going to have to make a decision quickly and it would be no easy thing.
As he entered behind Duncross, Max remained silent, preferring to give the Scot enough rope to hang himself with.
The silence stretched for several moments. Duncross paced, glancing to the window. At last, he rushed, “My sister. She’s no’ well.”
Max merely listened, inclining his head in what he knew to be a sympathetic fashion.
“Over the last months,” Duncross began, hanging his head in sorrow, “she’s grown more erratic. Muddled. Impetuous.”
Max lifted his brows. That sick feeling in his gut was returning. “Indeed? How terrible for you.”
Taking his words as validation, Duncross continued with more confidence. “Our mother was much the same. I fear it is hereditary in the women of our line.”
Max drew in a shocked breath but then he sighed as if such things were far too common. All the while, he was growing to dislike Lady Diana’s brother more and more with each passing moment. “Weak blood is a most serious condition.”
Duncross whispered, “I’ve consulted doctors.”
Max stilled. “Oh?”
“Yes.” Duncross hesitated, giving weight to what he was about to reveal. “One has already diagnosed her as a danger to herself.”
A chill so cold went through Max then that it was all he could do not to grab Duncross by the throat and squeeze. The bastard was so earnest. His blue eyes so wide, his face so sincere as he’d paved the road to declare his sister mad.
If he had not met Diana himself, he might give some credence to Duncross’ suggestion. Except. . . except. . . there was something not quite right about the young man.
“How terrible,” Max replied, as one was supposed to do when given such a scandalous bit of family information.
“Have ye met her?” Duncross queried. “Did she accost ye?”
The real question, of course, being, was she still in his abode? And it was clear that Duncross wasn’t going to try to accuse him of ruining his sister again. Oh no, he was definitely choosing to paint Diana as delusional.
“I have met her,” Max confirmed, leaving the statement as factual as possible, allowing the brother to draw his own conclusions.
“Ah.” Duncross’ eyes lit. “Then ye have seen her madness.”
Max arched a brow, once again, allowing Duncross to choose whatever he wished to see.
“Her paranoia kens no bounds,” Diana’s brother lamented. “She sees danger everywhere.”
My God, how he longed to kill the man before him. He was sowing the grounds of Diana’s committal with apparent facts. With her own claim that her brother wished her dead.
At that moment, Abbot entered, the silver tray balanced easily on his white-gloved hands.
Max gestured to the table by his desk but then he peered at the tray, a long ruse he and Abbot had established if an emergency occurred. “This is not at all satisfactory. Send it back immediately.”
Abbot’s eyes flared imperceptibly. Ever the perfect butler, he inclined his head. “Yes, Your Grace. My apologies, Your Grace.”
Abbot exited the room with the dignity of a man who had been in service his entire life, despite the coded exchange.
Duncross eyed the grog tray. “Perhaps something stronger, given our mutual ordeal.”
“Of course.” Max crossed to the crystal decanters and poured out two glasses of brandy.
He handed a glass to the young man with as much graciousness as he could muster. He wanted the bastard to think he’d found an ally, to confide his plans. And then Max just might sink his body in the Thames tonight.
After all, he had the resources.
“So, you will commit her?” Max asked casually, swirling his brandy about his glass.
Duncross drank deeply then said with great sadness, choking on what he no doubt hoped appeared to be sorrow. “It seems I must. There are times when she seems her old self. So spirited. So intelligent.” He shook his head regretfully. “But then. . . devil take it! Why would she assail ye? ’Tis madness.”
“Most young ladies would not do such a thing,” Max agreed. But then, most ladies were not Diana. And most ladies did not carry the name of Angeline Purcelle on their lips.
And frankly, most young ladies did not have a brother like Hamish Argyle.
“When you find her, you must let me know,” Max said. “It is my dearest wish to hear she is well taken care of.”
“B-but,” Duncross sputtered. “Surely, she is here. Ye said she was.”
“Yes. Was. I’d never keep a brother from his sister.” Max sighed regretfully. “She’s not here now, Duncross. Why would you think she was still in the house?”
Max eyed him carefully, willing him to stumble and admit he was having the house watched.
Duncross swallowed then took another swallow of brandy. “I. . . well—”
“We tried to detain her,” Max cut in, eager now to see him gone. They needed to take action. Immediately. “But she rampaged out the back of the house. I do not know how she did it, but she fled through the gardens and into the alleys. I was going to summon a justice this morning and describe the encounter.”
Duncross gaped at him then protested, “But her maid—”
“Maid?” Max blinked. “I know nothing of a maid.”
Duncross’ earnest sorrow turned to white anger. “She escaped?”
“Oh yes. I threatened to turn her over to the authorities for invading my house. You see, she forced her way in.”
It was so easy, playing the part of an uncaring lord. He knew so many of them.
“As I said, we did try to hold her.” Max shrugged. “But she slipped our nets. And really, there are so many unfortunate girls in London. If I had known she was the daughter of a laird, I might have done more at the time. But she kept ranting about how her brother was trying to kill her.” Max cocked his head to the side. “You, I presume?”
Duncross blanched.
“Her paranoia must be strong, indeed, to have driven her from her home to London.” Max placed his snifter down on the mantel. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I am expected at the palace.”
Duncross blinked. “But—”
“If she returns, I shall hold her and send you word.” Max headed for the door, ready to escort the rat out. “Might I have your present address?”
“I have yet to find one,” Duncross replied quickly.
Max rubbed his hands together. “Ah. Well. Do send your card once you know where I can find you.” He smiled tightly. “Should the need arise. I do wish you the best of luck. Now, good day.”
Duncross’ mouth dropped open but, clearly, there was nothing else to be said. So, he put his own snifter down beside Max’s and headed out the door.
Max did not move until he heard the street door open and shut.
Abbot rushed in. “He is gone my lord.”
Max blew out a slow breath then instructed, “Call a meeting of Number 79. Now.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Abbot rushed to the door.
“And Abbot,” Max called.
Abbot paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“We are in for a good deal of trouble and the lady is in danger.”
Abbot’s eyes flashed with understanding and expectation. For the old man had often been a part of Max’s plots over the years. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“And send the lady in.” Max folded his hands behind his back, feeling a dark resolution building deep inside him. It was an old spark that had been struck. He still spied the streets of London, for king and country. But this was different. This was about the helping of a single individual. And help her, he would. It was what he had been born to do, after all. “We have plotting to do.”