“So she ought to have been.” Lucian’s voice was angry now. “And if she was not meeting you, who the devil was it? Who encouraged her? For reckless she may be, but she’d not have gone to such a place entirely alone.”
Max hesitated. “I don’t know.”
Lucian narrowed his eyes at him. “But you suspect.”
“No, truly. I have no proof, no reason to suppose,” Max protested.
“But you do suspect,” Lucian repeated, his tone brooking no argument.
Max sighed, knowing he would not escape an interrogation.
“Baron Alvanly.”
He was unsurprised at the litany of curses that fell from the marquess’ lips.
“I’m afraid I was idiotic enough to warn her off the fellow,” he admitted, wincing as Lucian glared at him in outrage. He held out his hands in a sign of defeat. “I know. I know it was beyond foolish, but… but it was a reaction and I didn’t think.”
“Alvanly,” Lucian replied, his tone enough to make Max’s hair stand on end. “I see.”
There was a tense silence and then Lucian let out a breath, returning his attention to Max.
“If I were foolish enough to warn her off as you have done, the results would be inevitable. I do not think her a fool, after all. She must know the man is in the market for a rich wife and that he would be a disastrous husband. I have taught her well enough to be aware of the tricks men use to snare themselves a wife through scandal, so I must trust she can see past his pretty face and beneath the veneer of charm he wears so well. We both must.”
Max nodded, not liking it, but aware that Lucian knew Phoebe better than anyone. If he trusted her judgement, then Max must too.
“But that does not mean that we do not watch her, and Alvanly. Can I rely on you to keep an eye on her?”
Max opened his mouth to protest. He had decided to leave London, to leave behind his foolish desire for Phoebe and go home, where he need not bump into her at every other social event. He was tired of longing for what he could not have, tired of being the man she believed would always put an end to whatever fun she was having.
“I know what I ask,” Lucian said, and Max hated the sympathy in his eyes. “But I do ask it. My wife….”
He hesitated, and for a moment Max saw fear in the man’s eyes.
“She’s rather tired of late. I don’t wish for her to overtax herself. If she is no better in a few days, we will return to Dern. I would have her see a physician in London, but she won’t hear of it. The stubborn creature. She’s certain she is just a little overtired. The season—not to mention Phoebe—has been rather energetic.”
Max’s heart sank, yet at the same time he was a hopeless enough case to be relieved, relieved to have a reason to stay close to her. God, he was pathetic.
“I do hope Lady Montagu recovers soon, and yes, of course I shall look out for Phoebe.”
Lucian let out a breath. “I confess that is a weight off my mind.”
Max believed him. Now he saw the strain around Lucian’s eyes and realised how desperately worried he was about his wife. It was no secret the man was still head over ears in love with her. Despite women setting their caps at him at every turn, angling to be the marquess’ mistress, no one had ever drawn his eye from his wife. Those who did not take a gentle hint risked one of his infamous set downs, yet some still dared it.
Noting Max’s scrutiny, Lucian frowned. “Please, say nothing to Phoebe. Matilda does not wish to spoil her season by worrying her unduly when there is likely no need.”
“Not a word, I promise you.”
Lucian nodded before returning a considering glance. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested—”
“Oh no.” Max shook his head and backed off. “I watched you pick those last two poor devils to pieces. I’ve had my exercise for the morning, and have no desire for an exercise in humiliation as well, I thank you.”
There was a frustrated sigh. “You’ll be at the Countess March’s ball tomorrow night?”
“I will.”
“Very well. I believe Lady Helena and Gabriel are escorting Phoebe.”
“I’ll look out for her. You’ve my word.”
Lucian nodded and patted Max’s shoulder, a rare gesture of friendship that spoke of his gratitude, before heading back inside.