Chapter 15

Fifteen

I t came as no surprise to Maximilian when he was rudely awakened the following morning – or was it afternoon? – by a loud knocking at his bedroom door, and the sound of his father's angry voice coming from outside.

"Get up, Maximilian. I want you to see this – I want you to see the things they've written about you…again!" the duke exclaimed, hammering louder on the door, as Maximilian threw back the covers and rose from his bed.

He could remember few details about the previous evening, even as it seemed he was about to be reminded of them by the words written in the scandal papers. Opening his bedroom door, he found his father standing there, red-faced and angry. He was holding the offending document in his hand, his eyes ablaze, as he thrust it towards Maximilian, who took it and began to read.

"The antics of the itinerant heir know no bounds. Not content with his conquest at the assembly rooms, Maximilian sought out a new flesh pot at the home of the Count and Countess of Morecambe. Oblivious to the feelings against him, he preyed on yet another unsuspecting victim, dancing with her, before retreating to the recesses of the anteroom, where he…" Maximilian read, his eyes growing wide at the lurid description of an act for which he had little or no recollection.

There had been a woman, certainly, but it was she who had approached him. Maximilian remembered her now – she was tall and elegantly dressed, wearing a peacock blue dress and a shawl with overly sized tassels hanging from it. They had spoken, and Maximilian had offered her a glass of punch. A waltz had begun, and Maximilian had invited the woman to dance…

"What do you have to say for yourself?" the duke demanded, and Maximilian shrugged.

"Well… I don't know…perhaps it's true," he said, reading the lurid description over once again.

"Perhaps? You mean you don't know if it is or isn't? Can't you remember? Oh…Maximilian, this is too much. Am I to read about your exploits every day of the week?" Maximilian's father replied, snatching the scandal sheet from Maximilian's hands, and tearing it in half.

It seemed to Maximilian as though there was now to be a concerted vendetta against him. One scandal paper was unfortunate, but a series…

"Someone has it in for me," he thought to himself, and now he pondered who could be responsible for writing such things about him.

It would have to be someone in attendance at both the assembly room ball and that held by the Count and Countess of Morecambe. Only actual observation would allow for such facts to be known. The countess was a snob, and only invited those with title and money – or one or the other – to her balls. That meant most of the guests at the assembly rooms could be discounted. The author would not be a simple artisan or member of the middle classes. Besides, despite its subject matter, there was a certain flair to the writing, suggestive of education.

"Not every day, I hope," Maximilian replied.

His father gave him a withering look.

"Why can't you just be like William? I doubt anyone could find anything worth writing about him – do you?" the duke exclaimed.

Maximilian was in no mood to argue. His father was right – William was faultless, as was Anne. Only he, the duke's heir, would find himself the subject of further copies, and it seemed whoever was writing the scandal sheets had no intention of stopping.

"No – because he lives a perfectly dull existence, entirely at your bidding, Father," Maximilian retorted.

There had been a time when William's own life had been touched by scandal – and the circumstances of his birth would bring about a far greater scandal than a snatched fumble in the dark recesses of a ballroom. But that was a different matter, and the protagonists in that affair were sworn to secrecy. Maximilian would not betray his family – despite the constant berating of him.

"Maximilian, I…I don't want to say this, but…I'm beginning to think you might be better off somewhere else. You could go abroad and allow the passage of time to heal your reputation. It won't do so here, not with someone printing these…lies…well, no…truths, about you," the duke said, shaking his head.

Maximilian sighed. He did not want to be sent abroad, and he felt certain his life would be little different whether in Florence, Paris, or Lancaster. On the continent, he would remain a rake, and in the exotic climes of foreign religion and culture, perhaps he would sink to even greater lows…

"I admit they write the truth, Father, but…I really don't remember much about it. And besides, what gives this person the right to say these things about me? Who are they? Do you know? Does The Broker Press reveal its sources? I doubt it. Anyone can publish anything if they've got a printing press. You once said yourself what an old fool that Broker fellow is – well, isn't he proving it?" Maximilian replied, growing suddenly defensive.

"But it's being believed, Maximilian. It doesn't matter if it's true or not – though it is, isn't it? It's the fact it's been printed at all. You're destroying your reputation by your actions, and someone out there is only too glad to help you do so. I can't stop The Broker Press from printing these things – even if I wanted to. No…going abroad. It might be the only way to teach you a lesson," the duke said, shaking his head.

Maximilian sighed. He did not want to go abroad. He liked Lancaster – it was his home. He had grown up in the county and knew nothing else but its rolling hills and moorland, its pleasant waterways and farmland. There was the rose garden, too – who would tend it if he was to be exiled.

"I'll find out who's writing this – I'll make them pay," he said, stooping to pick up the torn fragments of the scandal paper.

His father shook his head.

"It'll hardly do you any good, Maximilian. They'll only go on writing it," he said, and with that, he turned on his heels and marched off along the corridor, leaving Maximilian standing at his bedroom door, still in his nightshirt, despite it being noon.

With a sigh, Maximilian tried to piece together the torn fragments, thinking over who might possibly intend his downfall. He had suspected Amelia Fox at first. She had been privy to the event recounted in the first scandal paper – she had been at the event. But Maximilian had made a point of enquiring as to her attendance at the ball the previous evening, and the Countess of Morecambe had informed him she had not been invited.

"I don't tend to invite women like that," was all she had said, and Maximilian had assumed Amelia Fox to be neither wealthy nor well-connected enough to warrant an invitation.

"But if it's not her, who is it?" Maximilian asked himself, thinking over those he had recognized the previous evening.

There had been the usual progression of the local aristocracy – minor titles, lord this and lady that, a smattering of dukes, the Earl of Winsbury, and a Russian princess, living in exile, whom no one was entirely sure what to do with when it came to social airs and graces. Maximilian did not suspect any of them of having written the scandal paper, and that left the collection of young women for whom the ball had served primarily as a place of encounter.

"That merchant girl…Saunders…she was there, and at the assembly rooms. And she had a friend with her, too. Where did I recognize her from? Oh…yes, the inn. Lily someone…Porter, that's right, Lily Porter. But why would she be interested in the goings on of the provincial ton? But Alicia…yes, for her own ends, perhaps. And then there was the woman I was dancing with…what was her name? Leana? No…Loreta. That's right. She was very keen to dance with me – perhaps she's creating her own scandal so as to write about it," Maximilian thought to himself, and he continued in this way for much of the rest of the day, as he went about his pruning in the rose garden, pondering who could hate him so much as to desire nothing but his downfall…

"You weren't seen, were you?" the printer asked, as he ushered Lily into the disused watermill.

It was early in the morning, and Lily had slipped out before the rest of the household was awake, bringing with her another scandal paper for The Broker Press.

"There was a tramp asleep in a ditch, but he didn't see me. I was careful," Lily replied, handing over the piece of paper she had sat up all night to write.

It contained details of some of Maximilian's exploits at Burnley Abbey. Lily had made contact with a disgruntled maid, dismissed for stealing from the abbey, and to whom she had paid a handsome sum for information of a historical nature. Lily had not seen Maximilian since the evening of the ball at the home of the Count and Countess of Morecambe, and it had seemed necessary to keep the momentum going by publishing something to give weight to the current allegations. The maid had held forth – and held nothing back.

"And what do you have for me?" Mr. Broker asked, unfolding the piece of paper, and beginning to read.

A smile came over his face, and he nodded approvingly.

"Yes…very good. And you're certain it's true – all this stuff about the library and the…nighttime visitors?" he asked.

Lily nodded. She had no reason to disbelieve the maid, who had spoken candidly about Maximilian's many illicit exploits.

"It's all true, yes. He's a wicked rake, and the sooner he's exposed, the better. Will you print it?" she asked, and Mr. Broker nodded.

"I'm the most popular periodical in the county thanks to your scandal sheet. It's the talk of every salon and drawing room from here to Halifax. I'll print it, and I hope you'll promise me more, too," he said, and Lily nodded.

She felt certain there was more to come, and not just the revelations of history. It was Lily's intention to expose a scandal so great as to bring down the dukedom, and see the whole family humiliated. There was surely more to come – some greater scandal to be revealed. Maximilian could not help himself. He was a rake through and through. A man for whom scandal was second nature, even as his parents had tried desperately to control him.

"I promise you something…special, next time," she said, and the printer raised his eyebrows.

"Is that so? And what do you mean by that?" he asked.

Lily was still not certain, even as she felt it necessary to promise something more than just the ordinary. The drawing rooms would soon grow tired of tittle-tattle over foolish women led into dark recesses and an errant heir with lascivious tastes. What came next had to be something monumental. It had to be the difference between rise and fall – the very destruction of the dukedom itself. This was what she had promised her father, and now she promised Mr. Broker, too.

"Well…something to…truly expose him for what he is. I've been watching him, you see, and I feel certain there's something more – something I'm yet to discover. Just give me time," Lily said, the printer nodded.

"Well, you've increased my profits tenfold. I've got a string of businesses wanting to take out advertisements in the next edition. Very well, Miss Porter. I'll pay you a second advance and look forward to receiving whatever you find me – as long as it's the truth," Mr. Broker replied.

Lily smiled. She prided herself on the truth. What she wrote was always the truth, even if it meant uncomfortable reading for those whom it was the truth about. As she left the watermill that morning, and hurried back to Alicia's parents' house, Lily could not help but hope she was right.

"I'm certain I am," she told herself, feeling convinced she would soon discover what was necessary to drive a final nail into the coffin, and see her father avenged.