Julius pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. “Goldenbags,” he murmured.
Thomas Russell’s vulgar nickname, one he never answered to and Max pretended he didn’t know when in the man’s company.
“Yes. His daughter.” For something to do, Max took a sip of tea. It tasted bitter on his tongue.
“One of the Bedfordshire Russells?” His mother’s haughtiness came straight from court.
“One of the London Russells,” he replied.
Helena was smiling. Max didn’t trust that expression. She knew who he was talking about, too.
His sister, Poppy, on the other hand, seemed to have no idea. She was watching the conversation carefully, but from her sparkling eyes, Max knew she’d begin a volley of questions too. Poppy, to his jaundiced eyes, was the prettiest girl in the room, although Helena’s serene loveliness drew attention from a multitude of admirers. The family resemblance between them wasn’t marked, however. Poppy had a liveliness that often betrayed her into inappropriate but highly amusing comments. Helena measured everything she said and did. Her grace and elegance were renowned. Only the family knew the reason for that. If she took a wrong turn, did anything wrong, her mother would snatch her back.
Helena was the subject of a tug-of-war between Julius and his mother, the diminutive but redoubtable Duchess of Kirkburton. His mother wanted a companion, someone to fetch and carry and keep her company. Julius wanted Helena to have a life of her own.
By agreeing to act as Helena’s chaperone in this house instead of her mother’s, Max’s mother had stepped between them. Max had to give his parent credit for that.
Now he addressed his sister before she made one of her unfortunate comments. He had no idea what it would be; that was one of Poppy’s charms. But not in this instance. “Thomas Russell, Sophia’s father, is reputed to be one of the wealthiest men in the country. I’ve known him for a while. His daughter is charming.”
Max had no idea anyone could sniff so loudly before his mother did it. “A cit! You can’t marry a cit, Devereaux!” She couldn’t have been more shocked had he told her he was marrying a courtesan. “Upstarts. How will she go on?”
“Most creditably, I imagine.” Should he pretend he was in love with her? No, because his mother would label that as vulgar. Love was for the lower classes, and it had no place in a proper marriage. He’d heard her say that so many times and ignored it just as many. He could mention her mother, but he’d do that in his own good time. “You should meet Russell, Mama.”
“I cannot imagine what I would say to him.”
It became Max’s new ambition to bring the two together. “You may discuss your views with him on Monday.” He answered her unspoken question. “That’s when I’m marrying. The special license is in my possession, and we’ve signed the contracts.”
“Without my agreement?”
He forbore to tell her that he didn’t need her permission. Or agreement. But he’d rather have her approval, however grudging, if only to smooth Sophia’s entry into his world. “Mama, I would appreciate your blessing. You’ll like Sophia. She’s a modest girl and a sweet one.” And too easily biddable by someone as forcible as his mother.
For once, Max was glad his mama didn’t live in his house. “She is a competent manager and prettily behaved.”
“I cannot imagine how a woman of that background will manage in society. Will she expect me to sponsor her?” She sighed. “I suppose it is my duty.”
“Mama, I will give you your house back.” Expecting his mother’s opinion to change, he continued, warming to his subject. “I can reopen Devereaux Place, restore the parts we had to close down, and complete the others. Finally you can have the house you spent do long creating.”
She gave him a long unsmiling look. “I hope you haven’t entered into this bargain just for that.”
“No, Mama.” Not the response he’d hoped for.
All his mother needed to set off on a diatribe on the modern way of life that looked as if it might continue for some time.
Ten minutes in, Max had had enough. He recalled another factor. He hated appealing to his mother’s innate sense of superiority, but needs must, and he wanted her on Sophia’s side. “Sophia came out six years ago. Her mother was Lady Mary Howard of Lancashire, but the lady unfortunately died shortly after Sophia’s debut, and Sophia chose not to return to society.”
At least that nugget won a pause from her ladyship. “Nevertheless, how will she cope with court mantuas?” And she was off again.
Murmuring that he needed to make arrangements for his bride, Max excused himself and quit the room, but by then, Lady Devereaux barely noticed. She was well into a story about Lady Mary Wortley Montagu’s husband, who was a mere mister, and the marriage ultimately failed, and set fair to move on to others. He’d wager she’d almost forgotten his news but was enjoying reciting the choices pieces of gossip.
Footsteps behind him told him that Julius had also beaten a hasty retreat.
“A moment,” his cousin said in that clear, penetrating voice of his. “In here, if you can spare me a little time.”
He opened a door to one of the smaller rooms on this floor. Elegantly furnished for all its size, with gilded furniture and light blue upholstery. The walls held paintings, set in panels, of the four seasons. A room to make a person smile with pleasure. Max did not smile and followed Julius inside.
“Do you know of a man called John Hayes?” Julius asked.
A chill went through Max. What was this? “John Hayes is the man who used to work for my future father-in-law.”
“I know.” Julius folded his arms. “And something else, maybe?”
Max glared at him, thin-lipped, anger seeping through him. “He offered my betrothed an insult.”
“By which you mean he forced himself on her?”
If anyone but Julius had brought up this subject, Max would have denied everything and left. Julius wouldn’t have introduced the subject if he didn’t have a reason. “Where the hell did you hear that?”
Max quelled his anger and, with an effort, concentrated on what Julius was saying. “You know I hear them all. What actually happened is your concern and yours alone. If asked, I will of course deny it. But you don’t know everything about Hayes. You need to see something.”
His cousin strolled across to a bonheur du jour set by one paneled wall, shook back the lace at his wrists and opened a marquetry drawer, pulling out a piece of paper. He handed it to Max. “What do you make of this?”
Max glanced at the document, then, when he reached the signature at the bottom, his attention sharpened. He read it again. “A letter from Hayes to the Duke of Northwich,” he said. “What of it? It appears to be a standard business letter.”
“Did you know Russell had dealings with Northwich?”
Max shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”
He glanced at the letter again. Read it. Frowned. “I don’t know all his concerns but I’d be very surprised if Russell were doing business with these people.”
He was reading about a consortium led by the Duke of Northwich, more political than anything else. “He wouldn’t ally himself to a cause. Apart from all other concerns, it’s not good business.”
“I thought so.” Julius returned the document to the bureau and turned the key. “From my research into Russell, I believe he’s as honest as a businessman can be.”
Max chose to take offence. After all, he was a businessman himself. He raised