Chapter 13

What in the bloody hell was Max doing crammed into a London hack with Dougal and Lucien as if they were twenty years old? Although, they were rather more subdued now as compared to then, and far more sober.

Max was aware that his clothing was slightly out of fashion and his hair too long. He didn’t think he would care, but now that they were out, he wished he’d taken the trouble to visit the tailor and the barber. Or perhaps hire a valet.

Good God, he was becoming the man he’d been trying not to become. The old Max. No, the Viscount Warfield.

He didn’t deserve to be that man. He was such an imposter filling his brother’s shoes.

Would Ada help him hire a valet while he was in London? She was the only person he trusted to do that.

Ada had sent him a note earlier that Prudence had agreed to meet with him tomorrow. Which was good because then Max could leave Monday.

Only, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. This was the first time he’d been in London in years that he wasn’t a complete disaster. He’d actually made it through last night’s assembly without feeling awful. He suspected that was because of Ada. She’d hovered around him until he’d retreated to his new chamber on the second floor. It was easier to ignore those around him when he had Ada to focus on.

Leaving Monday meant he wouldn’t have time to meet with Lady Peterborough, which he was still considering. He was stupidly curious about aspects of her relationship with his father. How had it happened? Had he loved her? Did she regret it? Perhaps most importantly, had his father?

He realized he might not like her answers. Indeed, he expected not to. Why torture himself, then? Because he had to know, and he bloody well couldn’t ask his father.

“You’re pensive this evening,” Dougal said, looking at Max, as if it wasn’t obvious who he was talking about. Max wasn’t sure Lucien could ever look pensive.

“Pensive or disgruntled?” Lucien asked with a laugh.

“I’m not in the mood for teasing,” Max growled. “Ever.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re going to be sour, why are we doing this? I’d be perfectly happy back at the Phoenix Club.”

Dougal snorted. “We know. Getting you to come out tonight was more difficult than persuading Max.” Apparently, Lucien rarely left his club in the evenings.

Max wanted the make the most of this night. Who knew when they would ever do it again? “I’ll endeavor to be more…pleasant.” He realized—without the unhelpful stares of doubt from his friends—that pleasant was a lofty aspiration. “Er, how about just less sulky?”

Dougal laughed, and Lucien smiled.

They approached the intersection of Piccadilly and the Haymarket. The Siren’s Call was just beyond it on Coventry Street.

The hack dropped them on the other side of the intersection.

“Ready, lads?” Lucien asked with a hearty grin, just as he used to do in their youth. Max felt an odd but welcome buoyancy, as if he could let go of his cares for a while. He hadn’t done that in ages.

“Do you remember the first time we came here?” Max asked.

Dougal laughed. “When we thought it was a brothel? How randy we were, and so sure of ourselves.” He rolled his eyes. “I forget who told us to come, leading us to believe we would be able to dip our quills in the well, and had a good laugh at our expense.”

“It was Oliver Kent,” Lucien said. “He still crows about it.”

Max hadn’t thought of Kent in years. A powerful and well-regarded member of Parliament, Kent could easily be their father, but possessed the sense of humor of a lad at school. He’d never been married and managed to be liked and respected by nearly everyone. He was particularly known for guiding young bucks on their path to debauchery. But he did it with such good humor and efficiency that no one faulted him for it. Probably because he was the first to help someone in need—quietly, of course. Indeed, he’d visited Max after he’d returned from Spain and still wrote from time to time. Max had never responded.

“Does Kent still frequent this place?” Max asked, wondering if he was going to have to answer for his rude behavior.

“No idea,” Lucien responded. “I haven’t been here in years.”

“Me neither,” Dougal added as they neared the club.

“You know I haven’t,” Max said rather unnecessarily.

Dougal moved between them and put his arms around their shoulders. “I’m glad we’re here now. Into the breach!” He led them to the door, where a footman admitted them.

Memories assaulted Max as he stepped inside the large main room of the club. Round tables covered with purple linen sat at intervals, many of which were occupied by gentlemen. Provocatively dressed women glided about, some offering drinks while others simply stopped to chat with patrons.

A large arched doorway with purple drapes led to the gaming room. Shouts and laughter carried into the main room, tempting Max. He’d won—and lost—a great deal of money here.

“Gambling tonight?” Dougal asked as if he could read Max’s mind. But then he likely recalled how much Max had enjoyed the tables. They all had.

“I’m a bit long in the tooth for that,” Max responded wryly.

As they made their way into the main room, heads turned, and the murmurs started along with the looks—gazes focused on Max’s face briefly until they turned away in alarm or disgust. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, determined to stay.

He could suffer this. He’d endured far worse.

“Och!” A woman with bright red hair stopped in front of them. She put her hands on her ample hips and looked from Lucien to Dougal and then to Max, where her attention arrested on his face. “Hunt?” she asked, her eyes agog. “What the devil happened to ye?” Her Scottish brogue, thicker than Dougal’s, was as pronounced as it had been a decade earlier.

“The war, Becky,” Max said evenly. “I was in Spain.”

“I forgot about that.” She leaned close, standing on her toes so his cheek was at her eye level. “Looks like ye were burned. Imagine that hurt like hell. I’d say it makes ye ugly, but in truth, it gives ye a dashing, mayhap dangerous, air.” She stood back and narrowed an assessing eye at him. “I like it.”

Max didn’t know whether to be offended or complimented. He preferred the latter, so that was what he decided to be. “Thank you.”

Dougal leaned toward her and spoke in a low, gravelly voice. “He’s dangerously dashing. Spread the word.”

Becky snorted. “Hunt never had trouble turnin’ heads, and he won’t now. Nothin’s changed—we still aren’t offering services,” she added with a touch of sternness.

“He’s the Viscount Warfield now,” Lucien said with mock authority.

Her eyes widened, and she sank into a deep, overwrought curtsey. “Your lordship. I am honored to be in your presence.” When she rose, she surveyed the three of them. “Ye lot want a table? Ale?”

“That would be most welcome,” Dougal said, rubbing his hands together.

She showed them to an empty table near the middle of the room. Max nearly protested in favor of something on the periphery, but there wasn’t much available. Besides, he didn’t want to be difficult. He tugged his hat a little lower on the left side.

Becky went to fetch their ale.

“You aren’t going to cover your scars doing that,” Lucien said.

Max glowered in his direction. “Mind yourself.”

“What was the name of the actual brothel we went to after we discovered we weren’t getting shagged here?” Dougal mused.

Lucien drummed his fingertips on the table briefly. “I don’t recall.”

“Madame Helene’s.” Max remembered it quite well.

“Holy shit, I’d forgotten that!” Lucien slapped the table. “I wonder if she’s still in business.”

“Thinking of going there later?” Dougal asked slyly.

Before Lucien could answer, Becky returned with the ale. She stayed to chat for a few more minutes before moving on to another table.

Dougal lifted his mug. “To old friends and new memories.”

“Hear, hear.” Lucien raised his ale.

Max said nothing, but held his mug out before taking a long drink. Being here was like a dream. He could almost forget the pain of the past few years, imagine he was the carefree young man who thought he was invincible.

So why not do that for one night? Couldn’t he pretend he hadn’t gone to Spain? Hadn’t suffered tremendous loss and committed terrible acts?

“Ho, there, look what the wind blew in!” A jolly voice carried over them, prompting Max to look up at the new arrival.

Oliver Kent stood behind an empty chair at their table, his dark blue eyes piercing as he looked at each of them in turn, ending with Max. “Warfield, haven’t seen you in London in some time. A year at least.”

Max stiffened, wondering if he would mention the unanswered letters he’d written. “Evening, Kent.”

Kent greeted Lucien and Dougal, who invited him to sit. The older man set his glass of port on the table and took the empty chair in front of him. “It’s a coincidence to see you here tonight, Warfield. I was just talking about you earlier.”

“Oh?” The back of Max’s neck prickled. He expected people to talk about him, whether he was in London or not, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hear about it.

After taking a sip of port, Kent set his glass back on the table, keeping his hand around the stem of the glass. “There’s talk you’re to be elevated to earl. Well deserved, wouldn’t you say, gentlemen?” He lifted his glass again and took another drink.

Max gripped his mug as if he had to hold on to it to keep from drowning.

“Excellent news!” Dougal said, grinning toward Max. “I can’t think of a man more deserving after what you did in Spain.”

“It wasn’t just me,” Max muttered. “If they’re handing out peerages or elevating peerages, Lucien should get one too.” He sent a glower across the table at Lucien.

“Honestly, it seems egregious to award either of us for committing the atrocities of war,” Lucien said quietly. He took a long drink and kept hold of his mug after setting it down, as if he might need to swallow the remainder of the contents at a moment’s notice.

Max realized he was doing the same.

While he agreed wholeheartedly with what Lucien was saying, the only reason they were lauded was because of Lucien. Without his interference, Max would probably have died. And he’d been ready to do so. Without Lucia and knowing how she’d died, he hadn’t wanted to continue on. More importantly, he’d wanted to punish those who’d brutalized her.

“You’re too modest,” Kent said with a wave of his hand. “We love to celebrate war heroes, and that’s what you both are, whether you like it or not.”

Max didn’t like it at all. He finished his ale and abruptly stood. His hopes for the evening had been completely dashed. There was no putting the past out of his mind now. Not tonight.

“Evening, Kent.” Max looked to Lucien and Dougal. “I’m fatigued. No need to cut your evening short. Enjoy yourselves.” With a nod, he started toward the door.

He didn’t make it out before Dougal was beside him. “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

“After my time as a hermit these past years, I find this…difficult.” That wasn’t it exactly, but it was close enough. He thought of Ada and her conjecture that he actually was the hermit living in his folly at Stonehill. While he didn’t live in the folly, he absolutely was the Hermit of Stonehill. Perhaps he could convince whoever had suggested his title change that he should be Hermit of Warfield instead of earl. That he could live with.

Max walked out into the warm night intent on finding a hack to take him back to the Phoenix Club.

“Max, wait!” Lucien called after him. He hurried past Max and moved to block his path. “Don’t let Kent’s gossip ruin our evening.”

“This was a mistake. I can’t pretend I’m a green lad without a care in the world.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched. “No one’s asking you to do that.”

Dougal had stopped beside Max. He pivoted so that he faced both Max and Lucien. “Ignore Kent. We can always go back to the Phoenix Club and enjoy ourselves there.”

“Capital idea,” Lucien said.

“Did you know about the title?” Max asked, his voice low and raw.

Lucien’s response came fast and terse. “I’d heard.”

“And failed to mention it, to warn me.”

“It’s just talk as far as I know.”

Max hoped that was all it was.

Dougal looked to Max. “Why does this bother you so much? It’s just a bloody title, which you already possess. So what if it’s an earldom instead of a viscountcy?”

“I don’t want it. Or the celebration or the notoriety. I don’t want to remember why I received it.” The scars on Max’s face burned as if he’d just been scalded. He hadn’t experienced that in some time. He pinned Lucien with a bitter stare. “Just as I didn’t want your help. You had no right to interfere.”

“You’d be dead if I hadn’t.”

“I’m supposed to thank you for that?”

Lucien threw his hands up, his voice spiking with anger. “It would be nice.”

Max lunged forward, his hand already making a fist.

Dougal grabbed his arm and hauled him backward as he positioned himself between Max and Lucien. “People are staring,” he whispered urgently.

“People always stare,” Max shot back, his lip curling. He felt Dougal release him.

Lucien held his gaze. “I won’t apologize for saving you, nor will I regret it. I will always be here for you, whether you want me to be or not. If you want me to try to stop the elevation, I will. I’ll speak to my father and anyone else who will listen.” He edged forward, his features creasing with sympathy. “Your life wasn’t over when Lucia died, and it’s not over now.”

“You know what I did.” Max barely heard the words he murmured. “Try living with that.”

“I do, because I helped you,” Lucien said simply, and Max couldn’t tell if he carried the same weight of remorse and self-loathing. He certainly didn’t seem to with his successful club and his ever-increasing popularity. He sailed through life with a wide, self-assured smile and a surfeit of magnetic charm, while Max could barely eat or sleep.

Max stared at him, feeling as desolate as he ever had. “How are you not fucking broken?”

Lucien swallowed, his frame stiffening. “How do you know I’m not?” He turned and stalked off toward the Haymarket.

“Well, hell. Who am I supposed to go with?” Dougal asked. “You’re both bloody messes.”

“Go after Lucien. He will always be better company than me.”

Dougal clasped his shoulder. “I don’t want that to be true, Max. I’ve missed you. I don’t want us to lose this chance—I believe you should be here. Not just in London, but with us. With friends.”

“I’m not leaving yet.” Neither was Max promising anything. He hadn’t come here to renew friendships or forgive past mistakes, including the ones he’d made, which were far worse than anything Lucien had done.

“I’ll go talk to Lucien,” Dougal said, taking his hand from Max’s shoulder. “Are you going back to the Phoenix Club?”

Max nodded. “To sleep.” If he could. “I’m meeting with my half sister tomorrow. I have to think of what to say.”

“Just be yourself.” Dougal smiled. “Mostly.”

“Good night, Dougal.”

“Night, Max.”

Dougal hurried toward the Haymarket, and Max crossed over to Piccadilly, where he caught a hack to the Phoenix Club. By the time he stepped out of the vehicle on Ryder Street, he was annoyed with himself.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have left. Before Kent had interrupted them, Max had glimpsed a night where he could have let go of everything that kept him bound up and tethered to the past. He briefly considered going back and trying to find Dougal and Lucien, but the hack had pulled away.

Frowning, Max started toward the door to the club, but stopped. Was Ada here this evening? If so, she’d be on the ladies’ side, of course. Or perhaps in her office, wherever that was located. He suddenly wanted to find out.

In his youth, he might have garbed himself as a woman and stolen into the ladies’ side. Since he couldn’t fathom where to come up with a costume of women’s clothing, he’d have to settle for just stealing into their sanctuary. There had to be a servants’ entrance.

He pivoted and walked around to the side of the club. There it was. Stairs led down to the kitchen level below the ladies’ half.

Anticipation curled through him in a way it hadn’t for quite some time. This was incredibly unusual for him—or at least for who he’d become.

Max crept down the stairs and slipped inside. This area was quiet as he made his way along a corridor. Sounds of the kitchen came from his left, and he noted a staircase on his right. Where would Ada be? He couldn’t very well stroll up the stairs and find her.

Hell.

A woman dressed in smart livery came toward him, her brow furrowed. Max had never seen such a costume for a woman. It was a feminine version of something a footman might wear. It occurred to him that the ladies’ side might not have footmen but instead employed footwomen. Extraordinary and brilliant.

“You shouldn’t be down here,” she said.

“My apologies,” Max said smoothly, angling himself so that she could see his best side—or more importantly, not see his scarred side as well. “I am looking for Miss Treadway. I’m lodging on the other side of the club, and I require her assistance with something. I don’t suppose you could deliver a message to her?”

“Certainly.” The footwoman appeared skeptical.

“I assure you, Miss Treadway knows me and will be eager to help. Can she meet me in her office?”

“I’ll ask her, but if she refuses, you’ll need to return to the other side. This is highly inappropriate.”

“I do beg your pardon.” He flashed her a smile that used to draw the ladies to him like magnets.

Her features softened, and he felt a heady rush of victory.

“Where is Miss Treadway’s office?” he asked.

“Second floor, front.” She nodded toward the stairs that were now just behind him. “Take those straight up.”

“Thank you.” He turned and dashed up the stairs, moving faster and with more intent than he had in a very long time. With excitement, even.

What did he plan to do once Ada came upstairs? He had no idea and that unknown only added to his anticipation.