be ushered out of the way by an impatient groom. The clientele seemed to be a mixed bag, and Max guided Phoebe inside with a little trepidation. Cursing himself for not having paid greater attention during French lessons as a boy, he resigned himself to speaking English until the manager’s grasp of the language ran out and Phoebe had to step in. Even her beauty and what he expected was a charming accent—it certainly sounded charming to him—could not sway the fellow.
The manager shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
“He says all his staff are busy and we’ll have just to wait until someone can be sent to help,” Phoebe said when she turned back to Max, her frustration apparent.
“Je suis désolé, monsieur,” the man said, not looking the least bit sorry.
“Monseigneur Ellisborough,” Phoebe corrected, giving his title which, naturally, made all the difference as the fellow bowed low and exploded into a volley of incomprehensible French.
Max sighed, wanting nothing but to be alone with Phoebe and to return to their conversation, and feeling too impatient to endure anything else. He levelled the manager with a hard look before reaching for his coin purse. Setting down a generous sum, he held the man’s gaze. “Deal with it.”
This was a language the manager understood with no problem at all.
Suddenly everything was not only possible, but not the least trouble in the world and they were shown at once to a private parlour, assured that help would be sent to their servants and refreshments brought at once, whilst their room was made ready. Max’s frustration only grew as a seemingly inexhaustible number of servants trotted in and out, cleaning down the tables and bringing wine and ale, bread and cheese, and little dishes of aperitifs.
Just as he thought perhaps they might have five minutes peace, a ruckus began in the yard outside. Phoebe got to her feet and ran to the window.
“Good heavens,” she said, kneeling on the padded bench beneath and giving him a rather tantalising view of her shapely ankles.
“What is it?” he asked, distracted by the tussle between his honourable self and the one who was still dreaming of red silk ribbons.
He fought to look away, and lost the battle with a sigh of resignation.
“A fight at any moment, I think,” Phoebe said, turning back to look at him.
Max cleared his throat and wrenched his attention to her face. “Then you’d best come away.”
Phoebe frowned at him. “Whatever for? Besides, I think I recognise that fellow. Do come and see, Max.”
Max did as asked and peered out of the grimy window. “Good heavens. That’s Viscount Kline.”
“There, see? I knew I recognised him. I met him once or twice in town the year I came out, and I remember Lord Rothborn arguing with Jemima when she insisted they go to his wife’s funeral.”
“I’m not surprised,” Max retorted. “Why on earth would they? She nearly ruined Rothborn’s life, not to mention Lady Rothborn’s.”
Phoebe nodded. “Yes, but Jemima said they should go, for Lord Kline’s sake. I felt she had rather a soft spot for him, having been married to such a vile woman for so long. Oh, Max, look, he will get thumped at this rate. We must help.”
Before Max could either agree or demur, Phoebe was halfway out the door. Hurrying after her, Max took hold of her hand and towed her to a halt.
“Let me deal with this,” he said sternly.
She rolled her eyes at him, but blessedly did not argue and Max carried on, striding over to the impending bout of fisticuffs.
“Kline?”
The man turned, a look of irritation in his eyes, which cleared on seeing Max. “Ellisborough? That you? Good heavens! Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Is there some kind of trouble?” Max enquired politely.
“Yes, there is, dash it. This damned imbecile says I haven’t paid my wife’s bill, but I don’t have a wife anymore, thanks be to God, and yet the villain won’t have it.”
“How curious.”
Max eyed the large fellow—who had been dispatched to face the viscount and deal with the discrepancy—with misgiving. He got the impression this argument had been raging for some time and the chap was a hair’s breadth away from losing his temper.
“Le homme est pas marié,” Max said in his best French, to which the big man growled something that did not sound encouraging, and spat on the ground.
“Oh, Max, do let me deal with this,” Phoebe said, pushing forward and standing between Kline and the Frenchman before he could