incomparable in quality, flapped around him as though they’d been made for someone else. “Present your lady to me.”
Max drew her forward. “My wife, Mrs. St. James, Your Grace.”
“Indeed.” Wimbourne eyed her warmly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, madam.”
“Thank you, sir,” she replied. “It is my great delight to make yours.”
Wimbourne raised his brows at Max. “Well!” He paced to the sofa and flung himself on it. “Let’s see this chinaware that nearly made Lady Dalway weep.” And Max had Lawrence bring forward the velvet-lined chest he had built to carry around his sample of Perusia wares.
Now Bianca understood his desire for velvet boxes. In this room beautiful enough for angels to occupy, Papa’s finest wares emerged from the ivory velvet trays like rare jewels being unveiled for the first time—like something an angel might dine from. The scarlet glaze on the egg cups blazed like liquid rubies against the pale fabric. Max lifted out the gravy boat as if he were presenting a holy relic, its gilded rim glowing in the sunlight. Plate after plate, bowl after bowl, Max laid down a full setting for two on the polished table nearby, complete with teapot and cups on saucers with fluted rims, finishing it off with a delicate compotier, shaped like a bell flower and supported by three nymphs, garlanded with flowers and ivy.
It was the replacement for the one Bianca had thrown at her father, all those weeks ago when he’d been arguing that Cathy ought to marry Max. Bianca said a silent apology to that destroyed compotier, and to Mr. Murdoch, the modeler who had made it, but she also thought this new one surpassed the previous in every way. If she hadn’t smashed his first try, he might not have been pushed to create this one.
The duke was struck by it, too. He picked it up and examined it from all sides. “Marvelous,” he murmured.
Max smiled faintly. “I thought you might like it.”
“You would,” said the duke with a twitch of his mouth. “Well! Of course I’ll have some. Can’t have Dalway’s table finer than mine. Why was he given precedence, I’d like to know?”
“You were away from town,” said Max. “I left my card, and called as soon as you sent for me.”
Holding one of the egg cups up to the light, the duke scoffed. “Next time, I want to know first. God above! This glaze has a shine like nothing I’ve ever seen!”
“It is like nothing you’ve ever seen,” Max told him. “Mrs. St. James only completed her formulation of that scarlet glaze a few weeks ago. You’re holding one of the first examples of it, and if you were to order a set of it, you would be the first to lay your table with it.”
Wimbourne lowered the cup and looked at Bianca. Her heart lodged in her throat at his astonished regard. “You created this, madam? You?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she said.
Wimbourne looked at the cup again, then at Max, who still wore a vaguely self-satisfied smile. “You clever scoundrel,” he muttered. “I’ll be damned! Simply incredible.”
“How many settings, Your Grace?” asked Max smoothly. “If I might say so, the larger orders will be given precedence in the factory.”
Wimbourne snorted. “Trying to extort me to order more, are you? How many settings for Dalway?”
“Twenty.”
“I’ll have thirty, and a dessert service, too.” He snatched up the egg cup again. “You, Mrs. St. James? You formulated this color?”
“Yes, sir,” she repeated. “I formulated most of the glazes for Perusia.”
The duke gave her a long look. “I always knew you were a sly one, St. James.”
Max began replacing the dishes in the chest. “As you say, Your Grace.”
“In ten years, I’ve never known you to place a losing bet.” The duke shook his head. “Incredible. And now I hear rumors Carlyle is ill.”
Max paused. “Is he?”
“Yes, more ill than usual.” Wimbourne eyed him closely. “You’re his heir, are you not?”
“Second,” said Max. He cleared his throat and closed the lid of the chest, motioning for the waiting Lawrence to take it away. “Captain St. James, my cousin, is heir presumptive.”
“Right, right.” The duke tapped a quick tattoo on his knees with both hands. “Still, one never knows. An army fellow, isn’t he? In Scotland? Dangerous country, Scotland.”
“Yes.”
“Imagine a Scottish army captain becoming duke! Wouldn’t that set London on its ear?”
“Stranger things have happened, I’ve no doubt.”
Bianca watched the conversation with interest. Max had never said a word about the Duke of Carlyle, beyond whispering his family connection