re-established yourself as the earl, you shall be perfectly eligible for the likes of Miss d’Este.'
'She’s a child—the king’s grandchild, I might add. Can you imagine the scrutiny one would be under? I shan’t even consider it,' Max said, but he was already tiring of the topic. 'Did you overhear any of my conversation with Miss Whitmore?'
Roberts snorted, straightening as the ivory balls thwacked against each other without any sinking.
Max had a passing thought that it would be most satisfactory to beat the lieutenant at the game this time.
'Well, did you?' he insisted, taking his turn. With so much on his mind, he found it difficult to make himself focus on his aim and position, however.
'Some,' Roberts owned, just as Max thrust the stick. It made him twitch and the ball went oblique.
'And what did you think of it?' Max demanded, annoyed at his blunder with the cue.
Roberts took his turn. 'You told her quite a lot,' he said.
'Yes,' Max agreed uneasily. Had he said too much? But her help would be invaluable, and how could he hope to secure it if he did not tell her enough? If only she had given him some indication of what she would decide.
'Do you think I ought to have offered to pay her?' he asked.
Roberts sank the object ball and straightened with a noise of satisfaction at another victory. As Max glowered at the pocket where the ball had disappeared, Roberts said, 'No, I reckon not. She’s a gentleman’s daughter. Mightn’t she take offense at such an offer?'
Max grunted and collapsed into an armchair. Appearing in the doorway, Jollyboy trotted over, wagging his tail and dropping his head on Max’s leg. Max scratched behind the canine’s ears absently.
Roberts was right.
There was only one thing Max could do now, even though he hated it.
He had to wait.
***
Maximilian Emery should have been dead.
Lady Charlotte, wearing a fresh, unsoiled dress, sat in the yellow parlour on the first floor of Ceastre House. Her box of quillwork materials lay open, but ignored, before her. She was far too vexed to find the patience for paper filigree this evening.
Her cousin, Maximilian, was alive.
It was the worst possible news.
Upon Maximilian’s death, Charlotte’s father, Edward Emery, had inherited the title of earl and the estate of Ceastre. She had always enjoyed a life of wealth and ease, but this gained a magnitude hitherto only imagined. Instead of an allowance of five thousand pounds, she now had thirty. She could have her pick of marriage proposals, and even Baron Ferriston had been courting her of late. Everything was perfect.
But if Maximilian was alive, all was lost. No longer would she be Lady Charlotte Emery, but merely Miss Emery. The story would be the talk of the ton, and through no fault of her own, she would be seen as illegitimate—a pretender to a title not hers to claim.
Gone would be the days of promenades with Miss d’Este, granddaughter of the king.
Gone would be the attentions of Baron Ferriston.
Gone would be the thirty thousand pounds.
Charlotte rose to her feet, unable to remain still. She paced to the bookshelf against the east wall, then back again to the window.
It would not do at all. No. She could not bear it.
Three years prior, when a dispatch had arrived communicating the news of Maximilian’s untimely death, Charlotte had experienced a pang of regret and sorrow. Who wouldn’t? She was aware of her part in his decision to travel abroad. She was not insensible to her small portion of guilt as it pertained to his demise.
Now however, she wished very fervently that he had remained buried.
As if the sight of the fine gardens, their paths lined with well-trimmed hedges, had given Charlotte offense, she whirled around and went to the mantel. There she scrutinized a wax bouquet under a glass globe as if it held all the answers to her difficulties.
Why had that dispatch come at all, if he was living—quite obviously as hale and hearty as an ox? Why had he been gone for so long, allowing her all the time she needed to settle comfortably into her new role as the earl’s only daughter?
Some months before his departure, it had occurred to Charlotte that her most promising marital prospect was Maximilian himself. She had done her very best to present herself as such to him, to no avail. And then that simply horrid incident with Nicholas took place. Her cheeks warmed at the memory. Humiliating.
Nicholas was all too willing to strike back at